The Beacon
by Hermia S
Summary: AU. Cailan survives the battle of Ostagar to find that Loghain has slandered his name and turned his people against him. But between hatred and betrayal, there are small glimmers of loyalty. And he intends to seek them out. Cailan/Cousland/Alistair. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hi there! As you can probably tell, this is going to be more than a little AU. King Cailan was the first character to truly strike me in the game, and I was all but smitten the first time I saw him (Alistair wasn't made for the fangirls; King Cailan was! Not that that makes me love you less, Alistair darling.). His death was way too early, and this is going to be my little attempt to give him more time. And a story! Hurray!

Remember to read and review. I'd love to hear what you all think of what I've done here. :)

Also, I'd like to point out that I haven't played the very beginning in quite some time, so some of the dialogue is probably off. I'll be back to fix it once I begin again!

The title is taken from a song by A Fine Frenzy - "The Beacon." It's my self-appointed theme for Isobel and Cailan: _Let me stand by you. The honor is mine._

* * *

She was bred for this.

Shouldering the weight of the shield slung across her back, Isobel Cousland lengthened her strides to keep up with Duncan, each footfall in the dirt kicking up tiny clouds. There was nothing delicate about the girl, despite her fine stock. She'd spent most of her childhood fighting with her brother, learning the ins and outs of battle from her mother. Visiting noblewomen often voiced confusion at Teyrna Eleanor's relationship with her daughter, but their husbands and sons expressed their often differing opinions louder and with prettier words.

The very thought of her mother curled an invisible fist around her heart. Without time enough to grieve and being unsure how to do so, it left her in an awkward situation with her own feelings. Nights before while camped around a fire, Duncan sat next to her and offered an ear, hoping that it would ease the tension that seemed to be wired into the young woman's frame.

She hadn't known what to say. After assuring him that any familial tragedy would not muddy her concentration, Isobel excused herself and made her way back to her tent. She dusted away a confused tear and slept without dreaming.

Tilting her head backwards, her eyes ran up the front gates of Ostagar. While Castle Cousland was a large structure, some of the buildings within the ruined city were _monolithic_, even after all these years. She was so taken by her surroundings that she didn't notice the approaching group of guards. Only the sun hitting the golden armor of the man who led them tore her attention away from the architecture.

"King Cailan…," came Duncan's voice from her side as he moved out in front of her and extended a hand. While the grasped each others wrists in greeting, he continued, "I didn't expect a -"

The King grinned, a boyish smile on an otherwise manly face. "A royal welcome?" He chuckled, and his merriment wove his words with a tremulous excitement that made him appear even younger than he was. "I was beginning to worry you'd miss all the fun."

Isobel felt her cheek twitch in a small smile as Duncan visibly repressed rolling his eyes. After spending so much time with the King, having seen him grow up, he was well aware of his nature. Ever amused and hardly a dour bone in his body. "Not if I could help it, Your Majesty."

Bumping Duncan's arm playfully with his fist, King Cailan looked to Isobel and then to the guards following him. Pride seeped into his voice, but it did not cause the smile on his mouth to falter. "Then I'll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all. Glorious." After a moment, he turned to Duncan. "The other Wardens told me you'd found a promising recruit." His eyes went to Isobel, who shifted on her feet, hands clasped behind her back. "I take it this is she?"

"Allow me to introduce you, Your Majesty -"

Cailan interrupted the older man by stepping forward to stand right before Isobel, thin blonde eyebrow arched and the same impish grin returning to his face. Maker, he was so much larger than she'd expected. He was nearly a foot taller than she was, and twice as wide. Somehow, despite his side, he wasn't nearly as intimidating as she'd imagined. "There's no need to be so formal, Duncan," the King admonished, "We'll be shedding blood together, after all." Taking a deep breath, he brought his shoulders back and released it in a cleansing sigh. "Hello there, friend. Might I know your name?"

"I am Isobel, your Majesty," she replied, trying her very best to fill her voice with a confidence that had all but disappeared of late.

"Pleased to meet you," he smiled. She suddenly felt at ease. A warmth emanated from the King that she found herself shocked to notice. He was much beloved in Ferelden. Anyone who came into contact with him hardly ever left with a foul word to say. "The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers. And I, for one, am glad to help them." There was a pride in his voice that was wholly unselfish. The man before her was a true paragon, though not in the dwarven sense. He was an ideal, a true picture of kingliness. At least, that was what Isobel saw. She knew nothing of his ineptness in politics, nor did she know that his wife truly ruled Ferelden. Even if she had learned of this, she wouldn't have truly believed it. In her own naïvety, she found herself almost blushing as he watched her face, his blue eyes shining.

King Cailan paused, a look of recognition falling over his features. "You're the daughter of Teyrn Bryce Cousland, are you not? I remember a daughter by the name of Isobel, and your accent surely suits."

At her father's name, she bit down on the tender inside of her bottom lip. "Yes, your Majesty," she replied simply. Her sudden change of demeanor left Cailan looking to Duncan, confused. "It is a long story, not one for this day."

"Very well," was his hesitant response. While his sure smile wavered, it was soon back again as he side-stepped the topic gracefully. When next he spoke, his jovial tone had returned, and he reached out with a steady hand to take Isobel's elbow and clutch her wrist just as he had with Duncan. "Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar." Isobel gifted him a smile of her own and reached forward to return the gesture. "The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks."

"You are too kind, your Majesty."

Giving a thankful nod, he continued, releasing her wrist with some noticeable reluctance. "I am sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies." He chuckled, as if sharing with her some small secret.

No one else seemed to agree with his teasing. Duncan shifted uneasily, eager to change the subject. "Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week."

Cailan gave an amused "hah!" and turned away from the Warden and his new recruit, moving to join his guard. There was a confident swagger in his walk despite his unwieldy armor. "Eamon just wants in on the glory. We've already won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different."

"I didn't realize things were going so well," Isobel said with more than a little relief in her voice. Cailan's self-assurance was infectious, and she found herself standing straighter and prouder in his presence.

"I'm not even sure this is a true Blight," he sighed, punctuating his mock weary tone with a chuckle. He turned his back to those gathered, glancing up at the ruins. "There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas… we've seen no sign of an archdemon."

Isobel could sense an impression of urgency in the King, as if he _wanted_ to see an archdemon. She'd heard stories of the glory-obsessed Cailan, but she hadn't expected this. Duncan remained calm throughout and kept any condescension from his voice as he interjected, "Disappointed, your Majesty?"

"I'd hoped for a war like in the tales… You know, a King riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god." Cailan gave a shrug and turned back around to give Duncan a disillusioned smile. "But I suppose this will have to do." He looked to Isobel and arched his brow again, rolling his eyes skyward. "Now I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens."

Duncan bent at his waist, giving the King a reverent bow despite his own opinions on the foolhardy young man. Isobel mimicked his gesture, but she did not avert her eyes from Cailan as he did. He noticed this and grinned mischievously before turning away. With his guards at his sides, he made his way to his tent where Loghain would no doubt be waiting with a patronizing word or a dozen.

He waved one of the men over. "I have not seen a female Grey Warden in all of my years. I knew they accepted women, but I have never seen one." Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Isobel speaking to Duncan, her red head nodding, hanging on every word the old man said. "She's quite pretty… For a warrior. I suppose."

Before the guard could say anything, Cailan cleared his throat and looked away, signaling the end of their short, one-sided conversation. He ducked into his tent where Loghain was waiting for him, poised to strike with the very thing he expected. Boredom, pessimism, and arrogance.


	2. Chapter 2

_All she could remember was the blood. Dead darkspawn lay strewn among dead soldiers, dead hounds, dead… everything. Some still struggled to fight, falling to their knees beneath the heavy weight of their armor only to have their heads cleaved from their shoulders. Some fought with renewed fervor at the sight of their fallen comrades. Some ran, but most stayed. And most died. Most would never leave this field._

"Duncan!" Isobel shouted, though her voice was a mere echo amongst the clanging of swords and shields and armor.

She watched, horrified, as the Grey Warden dug his swords into the discolored flesh of the ogre. The sound was appalling, even worse than the overwhelming clamor sounding all around them. The beast fell to its knees, nearly crushing him in the process. He rolled out of the way, struggling to his feet again only to toss his head this way and that in search of the King.

Cailan was lying unconscious some yards away, and Duncan stumbled in his direction, sword dragging on the ground beside him.

Isobel lunged forward to meet him beside the King, tripping over the leg of a fallen soldier only to crawl the remaining feet to Cailan's side. Duncan's breathing was ragged as he regained all the composure he could, desperately seeking out the King's wound. He was not dead. His own unsteady breathing was a testament to that.

"Isobel," Duncan gasped, his hands leaving bloody fingerprints all over the fallen King's shining golden armor. "You must save him. Cailan must_ survive."_

Just as he spoke these last words, one of the remaining of the darkspawn horde lifted his roughly forged axe and hewed the Grey Warden's head from his shoulders. Isobel shut her eyes as a mist of the man's hot blood covered her face. Her stomach clenched, but there was nothing left. Instead, she grasped at her own blade and plunged it upwards into the demon's chest.

As Duncan's body fell to the ground, she heard a gasp from her side. She looked towards it, her eyes wide. Alistair. "Help." Her voice was feeble at best, and she nearly choked on it.

They were both tired. They'd both seen so much death on such a short night. But Duncan's words echoed in her ears, giving her strength.

You must save him.

Cailan must_ survive._

--

Cailan shifted, giving a fitful groan as he turned over onto his back. When his shoulder touched the ground, he gave a gasp at the pain, his hand reaching up to find the damage. His brow wrinkled as he passed his fingers over the bandage haphazardly wrapped around his arm, but his expression soon sobered and he opened his eyes.

"Where…?" He looked around, unsure of his location. His voice was heavy and thick, no doubt due to the remnants of the strong poultice she'd given him not long before. There was an air of defiance there, despite the drowsy sheen in his blue eyes.

"We are on our way to Redcliffe, my King," Isobel replied. She was unsure of how to proceed. She'd never tended to such grievous wounds before, nor has she ever been prompted to give such terrible news. Alistair offered the less-than-helpful advice of 'let him down easily.' How does one tell a King that he was betrayed and his army was slain 'easily'? Instead of dancing, light-footed, around the matter at hand, she softened her voice as best she could and gave him the news. "You were injured. Loghain retreated, and Ostagar fell."

"The battle - !"

"It is lost."

When the words fell into silence around them, Isobel felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of her. She could scarcely breathe as she watched Cailan's face closely for his reaction. At first, he wore no expression. Then, slowly, his eyes widened. His lips parted. He struggled to sit up on the bed and knocked his shoulder on the headboard, letting out a hiss at the pain that seemed to burn at his flesh. "By the Maker, what happened to my arm!?"

"Don't jostle it so," Isobel admonished, reached forward to bat his hand away from the wound. She was surprised by her own reaction, and she withdrew her hand quickly, eyes falling to her lap. "There was an ogre. You're lucky he didn't rip it clean off."

"I remember the ogre," he stated, drifting from shock to recollection and back again. She felt terrible for him. There was so much he didn't know, so many of his friends and companions slain, the state of his own country in pieces. He was not ready to hear any of that, but he had to know. She had to tell him. The few remaining soldiers gave Isobel the job without a moment's thought, expecting the young woman to know more about this sort of thing than they. Oh, how wrong they were. "I don't remember a thing that happened after that, though. Do you have any answers for me?"

Isobel bit down on her lip. _Tread lightly_, she reminded herself. _He is a king, but he is broken_. "I was not there for most of it, your Majesty. As you might recall, I went to the tower with Alistair. When I arrived, you were already unconscious."

"Isobel, is it? Bryce's daughter?" he asked, to which she gave a curt nod. The corner of his mouth curled into a small smile, a whisper of the one that had so recently called his lips home. "I thought so. You and Alistair lit the beacon, did you not? I remember seeing the flames. They were the same color as you hair…" He lifted the hand of his uninjured arm to finger a curl on her shoulder.

"You should sleep, your Majesty," Isobel murmured, turning away from him and leaving his hand dangling in thin air. She knew his musings were due to her own poor healing and the strength of the poultice she'd administered. Affections from a medicated man were worth nothing, no matter how high and mighty they were otherwise, no matter how strongly she respected him. "I will be here when you wake."

Cailan's brow creased at her evasion, but he allowed his hand to fall back down onto his chest. As would be expected, he was a man little accustomed to a woman denying him in any way, much less such a simple gesture as that. When he spoke, his voice was colder. It had a hard edge. "Very well. I will be here for Maker knows how long, if you wish to visit."

Rolling back onto her heels and then standing from beside the King's bedroll, Isobel strayed there for a moment. "You should feel well enough soon, my King. By tonight, even, Maker willing. Should you feel up to it, we eat around the fire. It's not a grand dining hall, but it is what we can offer." Nodding to herself, Isobel turned away from him and ducked out of his tent, only to be met with a dozen pairs of eyes. She shook her head, a sign that she did not wish to speak to them, and disappeared into her own tent, one she shared with Alistair. Even he knew not to bother her then, despite their shared quarters.

--

Cailan did not join them for supper. Instead, he remained on the bedroll, changing positions every once in a while only to be reminded of his shoulder and its torn muscles. Given that his men were clumsy healers at best, he was forced to wait until they arrived in Redcliffe to be back to his usual self. His drowsiness caused the men's chatter from around the fire to bleed into the sounds of the forest. The words were so muddied he could hardly hear the difference between one person and the next.

There was one voice in the midst of all the others, however, that he could recognize the moment it pierced the others. Isobel's words weren't lilting and weak like his wife's or the other ladies he'd been surrounded with at the Castle. There was a strength and a huskiness to her tone that brought it out from the others, separating it from the men. He could not understand a word of it, but he enjoyed listening to the sound.

Not only was it musical in its own right, but it helped him neglect the thoughts clawing at the corners of his mind. On a perfect night, he could ignore these persistent thoughts and concentrate on the sounds outside the tent. But on a perfect night, he would not be bandaged up, he would know nothing of his army's annihilation, and he would still be fighting. There would be fanfare and glory and hundreds - nay, thousands - of adoring citizens.

As the only child of the legendary King Maric, Cailan stood in an incredible shadow. Coddled all of his life by his mother, he was on the receiving end of countless epic stories of his father and grandmother's adventures. As a boy, he listened to them and drank them up, shamelessly shouting that he, too, would be a great king. As a teenager, he trained for hours upon hours for days on end with such pure ambition that made his parents proud. As a man, he strove to become his father. Not a good king. Not a warrior king. He wanted to bring brilliance and triumph to his beloved country. How better to do that than emulate the man he grew up idolizing?

Where had that gotten him?

Blinking back tears, Cailan cursed himself for his emotions. Had he only listened to Loghain, he would not be in this situation. He would be victorious. His success would fill his beloved people with confidence. But, he remained himself, Loghain betrayed him. He betrayed a direct order, knowing full well that the army would be slaughtered if he withdrew his soldiers.

There would be no feast in his honor. There would be no parade, no beautiful women, no sycophants begging for a kind word. All he had now was the chill in the tent and his blurry vision and the sound of Isobel Cousland's song near the fire.

--

On the day the group was to reach Redcliffe, Cailan found that he was feeling well enough to ride. Instead of lying and waiting to arrive at his uncle's They worried over him, helping him onto one of the mounts, watching him with the eyes of a flock of hawks. After all those days of transporting him, if he was to fall and injure himself even worse while on his way into Redcliffe due to clumsiness, they would all be embarrassed.

Cailan watched as Isobel conversed in hushed tones with Alistair. They walked side by side near the front of the pack, their shoulders nearly touching they were so close. He knew of the intimacy of friendship between many Grey Wardens, but he did not understand the depth of the connection there. They were the last. How would he feel if he was the last of anything? Lonely was the first emotion that came to mind, swiftly followed by desperate and paranoid. It would only be natural for her to gravitate toward him, right?

Gripping at the reins of the horse, he slowed it down to a steady trot. They hadn't spoken in days, not since he'd made such an idiotic comment in his stupor. "Fool," he whispered to himself, averting his gaze from the back of her head.

The company rode in near silence for the remainder of the trip. A few hours ride was nothing for any of them. Even Isobel in her ungainly armor did not complain of fatigue. The day was beautiful - there was a chill in the air that matched the clear blue sky, a soft wind, and the forest was filled to the brim with birds' songs. No one wished to disturb the flawlessness of the moment, even those men who constantly talked on and on of how they were on a suicide mission. The war was lost, and in more ways than one. No one wanted to say these things. No one wanted to think of them.

Under the shadow of Arl Eamon's protection, they would regroup and they would reclaim the land.

"You, ser," Cailan called out as he began to spot the first signs of Redcliffe above the trees. The guard wandered over on his horse, awaiting orders. "Ride ahead and give tidings of our arrival to my uncle. He will be glad to hear it."

The soldier nodded and then disappeared off around the bend and into the thicket. Isobel glanced over her shoulder and looked back at him. He smiled. She was glad to see that the smile he wore when first they met had returned. So glad, in fact, that she replied with one of her own. Truthfully, she did not blame or think differently of him after the moment in his tent. She had been injured many times in her short life, and she knew how healing sometimes clouded the senses - or judgment.

Unsure as she was of how to address the topic, though, she doubted he'd ever know.

They walked and rode for just short of another hour before the reached the fork that would take them down to Redcliffe. Instead of being met by the soldier, they were met by a group of three men. One was of slight stature and clearly not a fighter, but the two others were built just as sturdily as a guard.

Cailan reigned his horse to a halt before the men. Isobel and Alistair watched in anxious silence as the two stared each other down. Something was wrong.

"Who are you, ser? Why do you block the way?"

It filled Cailan's men with confidence to hear their King speak with the full, proud tone they'd grown accustomed to over the years. The three others were not nearly as impressed. The shorter man gave a sniff of contempt before delivering the news. "If you are come to look upon your uncle, Andraste save him, you need not go any father. Know that your dirty work is nearly done."

Cailan's mount kicked at the ground with its feet, a reaction to his rider's sudden unease. The guard at the King's side stepped forward, his lip curled in a threat. "That is treasonous, ser. Watch your words."

"It is not treasonous if I am not speaking to or of the King," the smaller man said plainly before turning his attention back to Cailan. "Turn around and go, Cailan. You are not wanted here."

"Speak sense," Cailan growled. His knuckles were white from his grip on the horse's reins, and he remained oblivious to the dull ache in his shoulder. No one threatened him, especially not some vassal for his beloved uncle.

Isobel stepped forward, "We are come to ask Arl Eamon for sanctuary." A snort of laughter was all she received in response. Her hand fell to the grip of her sword. The two men standing guard fell into a defensive pose, ready to take anything that she gave them. Or, at least, they imagined it to be so. "Do not be so foolish," she said, "We number eleven. You number three."

"And we come in _peace_," Alistair reminded her, grasping her wrist and carefully removing her hand from her sword's hilt. "We aren't looking for a fight. We come with news, and _King_ Cailan wishes to visit with his uncle."

"A visit will be difficult, all thing's considered. He may already be dead. Bann Teagan has all but taken over our city, and I fear we have larger fish to fry."

Cailan's eyes widened, and his hand left the horse's reins only to rest upon his chest. His heart shuddered beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. It felt as if it would loosen itself from its ties and fall into the pit of his stomach.

Isobel looked to him, her own guts twisting in sympathy. "I," she began, looking from her King to the serf standing before them. His stance was haughty despite not being armed. She wanted nothing more than to have him kiss her sword, but she knew that keeping her anger bottled up would be for the better. "I will go. I will visit Bann Teagan if he will hear me."

"He'd do more than hear you," one of the guards muttered.

Clenching her jaw to keep from saying anything in response, she looked to the smaller man. "Please, ser. This is a matter of great importance. I will leave my weaponry with my party if that will inspire some form of confidence."

The man thought about this for a moment. It was obvious the young woman was a skilled fighter. One couldn't look at her posture and musculature and think otherwise. If she was separated from the others, it would damage the morale, as well as the overall power of the group. In truth, this was a better idea than one he could've concocted on his own.

"Very well," he nodded. "Remove your weapons and meet with us near the waterfall."

With that, the three men turned and left.

Lifting her shield over her head, Isobel let the heavy object fall to the ground at her feet. Next came her sword, and she felt a twinge of regret as her family heirloom touched the sandy road. Alistair and a few of the guards stopped to set up came off the side of the road, and she was left, looking down at her sword and shield, with Cailan still on his mount.

"That sword is important to you, isn't it?" he asked, full of genuine curiosity. He saw the way she looked at it, and he knew that look. He knew it well.

Isobel looked up at him, lifting a hand to shield the sun from her eyes. "Yes. It is. I hate to leave it." She chuckled. It was foolish to be so attached to the trappings of the physical world. At least, that's what she'd been taught so often as a child. "It saved my life."

"Would you… like me to watch it for you? While you're gone?"

There was a tenderness in his voice that took her by surprise. If anyone would know how she felt, it was him, but she still expected different. Despite the utter humanity of his experiences, he was still the King. He was on some other plane than she.

He waited for some vocal response - a simple yes or no. Instead, he watched as her expression softened. He could see take a deep breath. He could see a sadness in her eyes that intermingled with the surety he'd come to expect from her. Instead of words, she nodded and bent to pick up the sword.

When she handed it to him, she watched as he inspected it with a respect that mirrored her own. The lump in her throat only grew in size, and she turned away before he could say anything.

Running his fingers along the blade, he smiled to himself, though he was unsure why.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all for the reviews! I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up. I wanted it to be _good_, haha.

Also, I wanted to apologize for any inconsistencies with canon lore - Cailan's mother, for instance. Just bear with me, folks! I'll try not to make too many more errors like that one.

Enjoy!  


* * *

  
Isobel knew her plan was a poor one.

She felt much lighter without the cumbersome sword and shield on her back, but there was a weight on her shoulders that kept her steps close to the ground. Her brows were cinched together above her nose, an expression she often wore after encountering a combination of emotions she did not understand.

There was sympathy for Cailan's losses, and grief for her own. But there was also a newfound strength she felt to her bones, no doubt the remnants of the Joining. And then there was hope…

Her thoughts tore her away from the physical world as she made her way down the dusty path to where the man asked her to meet him. How could someone wrap their minds around the gravity of the situation and their quest? She was scarcely nineteen - unmarried and unattached to anything apart from her deep faith to her family name and the memory of her mother and father. She had no place as one of the last Grey Wardens, just as she had no place as the protector of the King.

She certainly had no place in diplomacy.

When she reached the waterfall, the three men were waiting for her, all of them staring intently in her direction. Waiting, like a group of cats watching their prey. The same two words played in repeat inside her head as she made her way down the road - bad idea, bad idea, bad idea. Despite her worries, she held her shoulders high, tilting her chin upwards in expertly imitated confidence.

Years spent placating noblewomen taught Isobel a great deal about lying. Or, as she preferred it, bluffing.

Why had Alistair let her go through with this?

Would she have given him a chance to persuade her otherwise?

Sacrifices were to be made on the road towards peace. That sounded like a decent philosophy to tide over her churning stomach. If anyone was to understand the situation - the _true_ happenings at Ostagar - she would have to tell them herself. Loghain was quick to spread lies. She would be there to show them for the poison they were.

--

It was almost nightfall before Cailan's men began to vocalize their concerns about Isobel. They figured her speaking to Bann Teagan would last a good few hours, but she'd been gone for much longer. When another soldier slipped into Cailan's tent, his features skewed with concern, the king knew exactly what he would say.

"I worry, your Majesty, that there has been some complication in Redcliffe."

"I know," was Cailan's solemn reply. There was a vein of comfort in his tone that gave the soldier some glimmer of optimism. They wouldn't sit around the fire for much longer. King Cailan had a plan.

After sitting in his tent for most of the day, his brains were wracked with unease. Nothing seemed to slow long enough for him to catch up. He was weary and he was sad and he was angry. He didn't know what to feel without mixing his emotions into a blur of colors and torture. His sadness bled into his anger. His grief chased the strong feeling of being overwhelmed. He felt as though he was drowning in his own head.

And then there was Isobel. She confused him, something he could do without given his current state, but she was such a strong part of this group. Mere days together and they were already like a second family. Alistair would sooner betray Cailan than speak a harsh word of his last connection to the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. The men who fought beside her knew first hand what a valuable asset to the group she was. There was even a part of him that didn't want to see her go either, especially not at the hands of the men who'd stopped them earlier.

"What do you suggest we do?" Cailan asked the soldier. "Do we storm the city? Do we leave without her to find allies? For there are _clearly _none here."

The soldier's eyes fell to the ground in front of him at a loss for words.

"There is nothing we can do. Not yet. Teagan wouldn't dare hurt a Grey Warden." Pausing, a hint of a smile passed his lips. "Though I doubt he could. Hurt her, I mean. She's a tough one."

"Aye," agreed the soldier. "But is there really nothing we can do? Should we send Alistair to assist in the negotiations? He seems more level-headed than she. We don't know what we're dealing with here, save for a scant few words from earlier. And, pardon my forthrightness, it doesn't sound like you have much clout here anymore, your Majesty."

Cailan merely nodded. He crossed the tent and opened the flap, ducking out of it and into the chilly night. The men were all idling around, and there was a sense of uneasiness on every face. None of them were used to the silence, but they did not know what to say. When Cailan began his way toward the center of them, they all snapped into attention, their posture gone rigid and a few murmurs of "your Majesty" rippling through the crowd. He gave them all a dismissive wave before closing in on Alistair, who seemed to be worrying more than any of the others.

"Your Majesty," he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

"Alistair." Nodding to a spot some ways off where they could speak in peace, Cailan gave the young man a soft, reassuring smile. He was sad to see that it did not ease him. Finally out of earshot, the king passed his tongue along his bottom lip as he searched for how to begin. Panic struck Alistair, and he could feel his heart begin to race. What was he going to say? Were they going to leave? A few of the men mentioned leaving. They weren't really going to leave her were they? "After much deliberation, I've decided that you should go to Redcliffe to assist your fellow Grey Warden in speaking to my uncle."

Alistair repressed the urge to heave a sigh of relief. "Yes, your Majesty." He took another moment to realize what he would have to do. "Should we not wait to receive word of her progress before you send me in? Wouldn't that show we have no confidence in her? I-I'm not saying we _don't_, but it could give off that impression."

"What if she has failed? He could have locked her up by now for all we know. Or killed her."

"They, they wouldn't do _that_ would they? She's a Grey Warden!"

Cailan glanced off in the direction of Redcliffe, his brows knitted together in contemplation. "I don't think that title is worth much anymore, my friend. If anything, you have become the foe. Just as much as I."

From far off, they both heard a shout. It was a deep bellow of a warning, and they turned to see two of their men running towards the camp - the two who'd been sitting as watchmen on the road to Redcliffe.

"It's the Grey Warden! She has a group of men with her!"

One of the watchmen broke off from the other and went to the rest of the men to give them a more detailed account of what he'd seen, while the other ran directly towards Cailan. "My King," he gasped, struggling to stop short of them in his heavy armor. "My King, Isobel, she is nearly here. The other men with her - soldiers - not guards."

"Breath, ser," Cailan pressed, reaching to grab the man's shoulder. "Speak in full sentences. What sort of soldiers? Did they seem to come in peace?"

"Yes, your Majesty," the watchmen said, finally breathing easier. It took everything he had not to smile when delivering the news. "She was," he paused to consider what he'd seen. "Leading them, my King."

Cailan gave an amused "huh," before turning to Alistair with a grin. "Looks like we aren't going to have to send you in after all."

"Uh," Alistair murmured, forcing a chuckle. He was still as white as a sheet. "Hurrah."

Isobel's arrival into the camp was met with a chorus of cheers from the previously worried soldiers, but she did not stop to soak in the reception. She hardly gifted them with more than a small smile. Cailan's own joyous expression was sobered when he caught sight of her. "Your Majesty," she addressed him, dipping her chin down against her chest. Before he was able to return the greeting, she was speaking again, "I fear I come with terrible news and not much time to tell it in."

Cailan's eyes widened slightly and he offered her to step away from the group, his good arm extended toward his tent. She lifted a hand to stop him. "Not much time," she reminded him. "An hour at the most to be completely ready."

"What are you talking about? What do you mean? Ready for what?"

"The people of Redcliffe are in trouble, your Majesty. Every night they are attacked, and they struggle to stay alive. Many of them have failed." Taking a deep breath, she released it in a ragged sigh. There were noticeable bags beneath her dark eyes. She was tired, and in more ways than one. "It was terrible to see. They fear they will not make it through tonight. I was able to assist Bann Teagan in a way he could not refuse."

As she spoke, she paced back and forth, each word paired with a hand gesture and the clink of her armor. "I offered to put our - _your_ - men in the fight. Hopefully we can help rid them of this demonic force for good." When she turned to look him in the eyes, Cailan could tell that she was unsure of her actions. "I'm sorry for making these assumptions, but they need help. If we help them, there is a strong chance they will help us. I didn't know what else to do."

There was a desperation in her voice that spoke volumes to him. Her confidence was irresolute at best, and he suppressed the desire to place a comforting hand on her shoulder as he had the watchman. The last time he'd touched her, she turned away. "I agree with your conclusions, Grey Warden."

"Really?" she asked, her voice shaking. She was taken aback, almost completely knocked off of her feet. For hours she'd been degrading herself in her own mind, but Cailan thought she'd done her best? How could he… Shaking her head, she gave a nervous laugh, "I wasn't expecting that. At all."

"Do not look so shocked," Cailan said with a grin. "There was nothing more you could do. If anything, you made wine from swamp water. I'm… Well, I'm impressed. I doubt any of the others could have pulled a wiser solution from the air under such pressure."

Isobel's lips twitched in a humble smile. "Thank you, your Majesty."

Cailan nodded, averting his eyes from the tiny, yet fetching curve of her mouth to look towards the men gathered around the campsite. "So, Isobel, what are we to do? I'll need your help rallying the men. I assume you have a plan?"

"I was hoping you would help with that," she admitted. "I have the beginnings of one and Ser Perth offered his assistance, but you are much more experience than I am."

"You'd be surprised how little I know," Cailan said, punctuating his own admission with a good natured laugh. Without another thought, he reached forward and placed his hand on her shoulder. She didn't shrug it off. Instead, she looked from the other men to his face. "Three minds are better than two, though, I suppose. I willingly offer my help. The fact that all I have learned of war tactics was from Loghain doesn't exactly inspire much self-confidence, but we shall see."

A full smile grew on Isobel's face, and Cailan found himself grinning like an idiot despite the impending flush of battle. "I have faith," was her soft reply. "Come. Ser Perth will be waiting for his King's guidance."

Cailan looked to her, genuinely surprised by her words.

"There are those still loyal to you, your Majesty. There are many."


	4. Chapter 4

"I should be down there with my men."

Cailan's expression was bleak as he turned away from Isobel and looked down at the soldiers gathered in the town square from the Chantry's second floor window. They were milling about, setting up fortifications and waiting. Waiting for the sun to set and the corpses to find them. "I should be down there, not holed up like some child."

"Teagan insisted," Isobel pressed, taking a step forward. "You're still recovering, your Majesty. You are not fit to fight."

_When was I ever?_ His thoughts bordered upon self-depreciation. All of his conflicting emotions were slowly festering inside of him, turning him against himself and making him question everything he'd ever dreamed for. What was personal glory if it was gained by the hand of someone else? What was victory if it only came by way of such a grievous defeat?

After speaking to his uncle, even briefly, he'd come to realize that the situation was much more dire than he realized at first. Loghain had all but named himself as king. Anora was missing and presumed dead. The cities were falling one by one to the Blight with no one still alive and willing to help them. He could hardly rescue Ferelden with a dozen men and two Grey Wardens.

"Better to fight and die here than keep running like a pup with my tail between my legs."

Isobel advanced to his side. This time, it was her turn to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Her fingers wavered as she did so, entirely unsure if such a gesture was even proper. "You're not running away, your Majesty. You're biding your time. We're helping these people. Isn't that what's important?"

Cailan shrugged, and Isobel's hand fell from his shoulder. He didn't want to talk. This conversation was over. Biting on her bottom lip, Isobel nodded to herself and turned to leave. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. The scourge of Redcliffe would rise soon. She had to be ready.

Casting his blue eyes in the direction of the setting sun, Cailan leaned against the window, his fingers splayed against the warm glass. As a child, Redcliffe was his favorite place to visit. Uncle Eamon spoiled him, as many often did, but he also taught him a great many things - to be a just person, to be honest, and to be loyal. He was more than just the heir to the throne with his uncle. He was a young boy, his own flesh and blood, and within him was a spirit worth nurturing.

The news that his uncle was currently wasting away in Castle Redcliffe hit Cailan harder than the news of his wife's mysterious whereabouts. Anora was tough for a woman who'd spent most of her life indoors. No true Ferelden would think twice of hurting the queen, unless they were just as black hearted as the woman herself. Knowing that at the end of this battle, Isobel and his men would disappear into Castle Redcliffe to help his uncle tore at him from the inside.

Of course they would say that Cailan was too weak to help them. He was still recovering. He was the true king. If anything happened to him, they just couldn't forgive themselves. Cailan's mouth set into a thin line. He was tired of being treated like some Orlesian vase, handled with such care so as not to chip or break him.

Turning from the window, he looked to his sword lying across the table in the center of the room. A few long strides brought the former king to the blade, and he lifted it with his good arm, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. He wasn't a little boy. He'd spent most of his life training to fight. A few troublesome muscles wouldn't keep him from supporting his people.

Down below, Isobel was just about to leave the Chantry and give the signal for the doors to be barred behind her when she was stopped by Bann Teagan.

"Do you have everything you need, Grey Warden?"

Isobel's hands went to the hilt of her sword and the dagger at her other side. "Yes, ser," Isobel said with a rueful smile. "It is nearly time, isn't it?" She glanced away from his face to the doors behind her. "You should bar these doors as soon as possible. Just in case any break through - "

Before she was finished speaking, he interrupted her. "Maker bless you, Isobel Cousland," Bann Teagan said in a rushed whisper. "We would be lost without your help."

Giving a bow of her head, she accepted the sentiment gracefully. No one need thank her for her deeds. To protect her fellow Fereldens was her cause, and she took it as no light matter. Isobel reached out and grasped his forearm. "Maker protect you."

"And you."

Turning around and leaving the Chantry behind her, Isobel descended the few stairs leading up to the building and met with the men gathered. Murdock was the first to realized she'd joined them. It was a sign that the battle grew ever nearer. He parted from the militia to join her away from the crowd. He was ready for the fight. All the men here were.

"Will you be fighting with us or with Ser Perth up near the windmill?" he asked, looking from Isobel to the windmill and back to the village square. His eyes were in constant motion, but it was not paranoia that drove him to do so. He was anxious for the fight, yes, but he was confident now that he had filled out his ranks. Having two Grey Wardens on his side was nothing to scoff at, either.

"Wherever you wish me to be, Murdock," she replied. "I go where I am needed."

After noticing Murdock breaking away from his men, Alistair was also alerted to his fellow Grey Warden's presence. When Murdock offered the idea of splitting them up - one Warden with Ser Perth and one in the village square - Alistair gave Isobel a questioning look. It took her scarcely a moment to come to her decision.

"Alistair, go to the windmill. Ser Perth and his soldiers could use you. I will stay here to guard the Chantry." _And the king,_ she finished without words, though they both knew why she was going to be the one staying right here. Alistair gave a firm nod and began the trek up to the windmill. "We do not have much longer, do we?"

Murdock turned to give a look to the sky. It was already darkening. Blue had faded into pinks and reds and oranges, all of which were slowly paling of color completely. Soon there would be a clouded blanket of stars above them, and that's when the battle would start. "Yes," was his stolid reply. "Should be soon."

Night approached even faster than any of them expected. By the time the howls of the dead reached their ears, the night air was filled with a biting chill and a thick ghost of fog from the lake. The soldiers stuck close to the fire in the center of the square to keep themselves warm and as an aid to see the corpses as they moved toward the company.

Godfrey, one of Cailan's men, stuck close to Isobel, and she could hear him murmuring prayers as the cries grew louder and louder. She tore her eyes away from the pious soldier to the hilltop at the sound of metal clashing against the same. Falling into a ready stance, she watched as the men around her followed her lead. She cleared her mind of all doubt. Instead, she filled it with the memory of her brother Fergus and her mother. It was not grief that brought her to do so, but pride. They'd taught her to stand with her feet firm on the ground. Most children learned to walk and to talk from their families. She learned how to fight.

And she wouldn't let their memories down on this night. Or any night in the future. Her jaw set as she watched the horde hit the men in front of her. With their restored confidence, they fought with renewed fervor against the foe they knew all too well. They fought for their fallen comrades and the town they loved. They fought to keep themselves alive and to honor those that hadn't.

It was as if the ghosts of her parents were standing beside her, and she could feel her mother guiding her blade as she sliced into the decomposing flesh of the first corpse to split the line. The force of the running demon knocked her in the shoulder, and she dodged the blow by turning and digging the length of her blade into the beast's back. Its weight pulled the sword free as it fell, and Isobel turned just soon enough to see Godfrey nearly slice an undead soldier's head from its body.

With every wave, the crowd thinned little by little. There was a moment when she felt they would be overwhelmed. The bodies of the dead began to stack up around the fire, and soon they were forced to spread out to keep from trampling on them. It was cooler away from the fire, and Isobel shuddered as the chill assaulted the thin layer of sweat on her limbs. Godfrey was at her side, as were two others, and they made their way up, closer to the docks. If they weakened the force up here, the men in the village would have less to worry about.

Isobel had her back turned, looking back towards the Chantry, when she felt a rough blow to her back. She tumbled forward, her face smashing into the ground. There was a crack, and a hot flow of blood ran from her nose and down across her lips. Her stomach churned at the strong taste of iron that filled her mouth.

Flipping onto her back, hands curled around her two blades, she thrust them forward into the gut of a corpse. The thing dropped his axe, and Isobel moved just quickly enough to the side to avoid being cut herself. A quick kick to the demon's lower belly removed the sword and dagger from its torso, and she struggled to stand, heaving and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground.

"Cailan!"

The word struck ice into her stomach, and she froze where she stood. The Chantry doors were thrown wide open, and she could see the King's golden armor gleaming in the fire. Bann Teagan stood at the door, his mouth wide with shock as he called his nephew back into the safety of the Chantry. Cailan ignored his pleas and ran forward into the fray, taking down two corpses in three swings of his sword from adrenaline alone.

The next had the strength to parlay the blow, and Cailan swayed a step backwards before lurching forward and plunging his sword into the beast's throat. Murdock's men were quick to back the king, and, while they'd slowed mere minutes before from a mixture of exhaustion and futility, they fought with renewed enthusiasm with Cailan at their side.

Despite their evident upper hand, terror clawed its frozen hand at Isobel's heart. "Godfrey, can you hold them?" she shouted.

"Yes, ser!" he replied, parrying a blow from one of the undead before knocking the thing backwards and bringing his sword down into the center of its chest.

A corpse advanced on Isobel before she could make her way back to the square, swinging his clawed hand toward her face with wild abandon. Bringing her dagger up to parry the blow, she stood there for a moment with the demon growling and snapping at her. The smell was horrible, and bile rose in her throat. Desperation led her to bringing her sword up swiftly, and she nearly missed the being entirely. His flesh sliced, but he did not bleed. He hardly staggered from the blow.

She turned and ran in the direction of the square, nearly tripping over the body of a fallen soldier. The corpse trailed close behind her, crying and lashing out at her with its clawed gloves. Her eyes were glued on Cailan as he gave another death blow, thrusting the body of the demon into the flames. Why couldn't he wait? Why did he insist on fighting? The thing's claw caught onto one of her boots and she fell forward again, letting out a shrill scream in the process before she hit the ground. All the air in her lungs came whooshing out of her, and she gasped for air, clawing at the ground in an attempt to get away from the creature.

Cailan snapped to attention at the sound, catching sight of Isobel as she fell. He jumped over one of the corpses and set off into a run, yelling out as the undead lifted its clawed weapon to bury a fist into Isobel's back. The corpse looked up, and Isobel took that moment of distraction to clamber to her feet, gasping and choking as she found herself able to breathe again.

She was just on her feet for a moment when Cailan pushed her out of the way and thrust his sword into the demon's side. The corpse fell to its knees, releasing a hallow, haunting moan. It was as if it felt pain. With one deft blow, the thing's head was cleaved from its shoulders.

Cailan's chest rose and fell with each labored breath. He felt so alive. His blood was pumping, and the smell of blood, while unpleasant, welcomed him with warm arms. Before he was able to savor the moment, his mind turned to Isobel and he ran to her side. "Are you alright?" he asked hurriedly. "Can you fight?"

"Yes," she gasped, hands still clenched around the grips of her weapons. "Th… thank you." Tears filled her eyes, and she cursed herself for her weakness. She should not be so easily overwhelmed, but between the pain that shot up the bridge of her nose and into her forehead and the bruises and bumps forming all over her body she could hardly protest any emotions that came to her in waves.

"There can't be many more of these left," Cailan assured her. His face, despite the blood that streaked his pale skin, was kind. "Murdock said so."

"Cailan! Watch out!" Pulling herself close to him, her arm wrapped around his waist, she drove her sword into an approaching corpse. Thrusting the hilt forward, she pushed the thing backwards and withdrew her blade. Before either of them fully realized how close they stood, Isobel jumped back, her attention turned fully towards the approaching wave of militant undead.

She fell into the stance Fergus taught her after he'd grown tired of besting her without much effort. She could feel the weight of his hands bending her elbows, her knees. She could hear him uttering a hopeful word or two as she fell into position almost naturally. The fight was almost over. She could taste it intermingled with the harsh metallic tang of her blood. Taking a deep breath, Isobel filled her lungs as best she could. They ached, but she drew herself up and released the breath slowly. And then she attacked.

--

Victory. The word tasted like fine wine on the lips of Bann Teagan as he murmured it to himself, picking his way through the Chantry halls, ducking his head inside rooms to alert the inhabitants of the place that there would be a small ceremony for the fallen soldiers and in honor of Cailan and his men very soon. His steps were lighter than they had been in days, and there was a smile on his mouth as he made his way into the last room on the hall.

Isobel was seated on the edge of the bed they'd shown her to that night. The healers had attended to her, setting her nose and alleviating the pain almost entirely, but she still seemed unsteady. A force to be reckoned with, yes, but unsteady.

"Good morning, Grey Warden."

Isobel looked towards the door and gave the man a small smile in greeting. He moved into the room, close enough to hold out a hand for her to take it. She did, lifting herself from the bed. "Brave lady," he said, his voice tender. "If not for you, we would have fallen. My people and I are forever grateful." There was a sincerity in his words that made her smile again.

"I would've been killed out there if not for Cailan," she admitted. "It is he you should thank."

Bann Teagan shook his head, bringing his other hand up to press hers between them both. "You were the catalyst, Isobel. You were our champion. I stand by this, just as my people do. I have just come from Cailan's quarters, and he informed me that he did not want to be a part of the ceremony as he played a very small part in this." Teagan paused, as if considering his next words carefully. "He is very proud of you. He speaks very well of you, though I can see very well why."

Isobel felt her cheeks warm, and her eyes fell to the floor in shocking meekness. She could accept compliments on her form and her skill in battle easily, but pretty words of a different kind were difficult to for her to comprehend.

"It is almost time," Teagan said softly, "Come." He let his hands fall from hers and offered an arm instead. She took it carefully, and they left the room to make their way down to the Chantry's doors.

When they arrived, Isobel was shocked to see the immense crowd that had gathered. It almost took her breath away to see all the men and women and children staring up at her and the men who fought beside her with expressions that bordered upon reverent. She looked to Alistair and Godfrey and they three shared a smile.

"Dawn arrives, and we survives the night," Bann Teagan began, "We are victorious!"

The entire crowd raised their voices in a cheer. The sight of them caused a lump to develop in Isobel's throat and she couldn't help but smile to herself, pride coursing through her veins.

"And though this victory came at a great cost, we must remember none of us would be here if it were not for the heroism of these good folk beside me." With that, Teagan turned to Isobel and she to him. His eyes were shining, though she could not decide whether it was because of the high morning sun or because of the happiness that no doubt flooded his entire person. "I thank you, good ser. You are brave as well as beautiful, it seems. The Maker smiled upon me indeed when He sent you to Redcliffe. If only this had been… but I can delay no longer."

"I was happy to defend the village," Isobel was quick to reply, and she gave a chuckle at her own eagerness, casting a look towards the crowd as Teagan turned away and Mother Hannah stepped up to give a prayer. Her eyes searched over those assembled in the square. She was searching for one face in particular, one she hadn't seen since the night before, when they'd both been covered in blood and desperate for the battle to end.

It took a while, but she finally spotted him near the back of the crowd. He was clothed in some of his uncle's cast offs, much better than those she'd scrounged up after Ostagar and inconspicuous compared to his armor. He was also wearing a smile - a _satisfied_ smile, one she never expected to see beamed in her direction.

Warmth flooded through her, and she found herself smiling back at him.

He could hardly believe the happenings of the night before, of the many nights before since the battle at Ostagar. Seeing her fight was unlike anything he ever thought he'd witness. He'd seen women fight before. Many of the archers in his former legion of soldiers were women. There were even a few in the front lines. But Isobel's strength was difficult to understand. It wasn't the outward strength of a dwarf, but an inner strength that helped her through the battle.

She wasn't ready for many of the battles ahead, but he could see the potential inside of her. He had faith in her ability to grow and to develop into something even he could only dream of being. A hero, in every sense of the word.

She confused him, and he hated how frustrated he got when she did so. She doubted herself more often than not. She wasn't a skilled healer, and she didn't know a thing about magic. But she was a leader, even more so than he was. He wanted nothing more than to follow her, to act as her right hand, and to obey her. With her, he was able to experience triumph like he'd never experienced before. Skirmishes with the darkspawn were nothing compared to helping save an entire town - a town he loved more than any other.

This was what he'd always wanted, what he'd searched for at every moment of his life. This day would be spoken of for generations to come. The people of Redcliffe would be loyal to them in the battles ahead. This was a beautiful, inviting feeling.

This was true glory.


	5. Chapter 5

"I can't believe we're sneaking in through the basement."

Cailan's whisper was pointed. He was damp and annoyed and he just wanted to get this over with. His uncle's wife and son were in trouble. It added an urgency to his own desire to help. Saving women and children was always a big deal.

Isobel smirked to herself as she climbed up the ladder that led into the basement of Castle Redcliffe. It was incredibly dark and musty down here, but it was the easiest way in. Bann Teagan had assured them of that. "Would you rather we go in through the front gates?" she asked him, glancing over her shoulder to look down to the king. He stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding onto it for support, eyes averted for two very different reasons. Decency being one of them, and the other being that he was absorbed in his own thoughts. Isobel groaned inwardly, resting her chin on her arm. "Don't answer that." Turning back to her ascent, she rolled her eyes. "Of course you want to go through the front gates."

He was lucky to even be here. Teagan was adamant about the group leaving Cailan back in town, but she felt she owed the king some small gift for him saving her the night before. He'd shown a strength she hadn't expected. The king was a skilled fighter indeed.

When Isobel finally reached the top, she unlocked the hidden door with the key Teagan had given her and lifted it open. As expected, there was nothing but straw in the room. She took a slow breath of relief before turning around and gesturing for Cailan to climb up next. Pulling herself up and onto the cool stone floor, she turned and grasped the ladder to keep it steady.

Cailan was much quicker on the ladder than she was despite the weight of his armor. Most of his speed could be blamed entirely on his eagerness to throw himself into whatever presented itself. The ladder creaked and shuddered in her hands, but it stood true. She thanked the Maker for that. After reaching the top, Cailan found himself right before the face of a kneeling Isobel. He hovered there for a moment, their eyes locked. Her lips parted as if she was going to say something, but she closed them soon after. He could tell that she wanted to turn away, pulled by that uncharacteristic reserve that always overcame her when she came in close contact with someone. But she didn't. It was as if she _couldn't_.

The feeling of the next man mounting the ladder tore them both out of their reverie, and Cailan hoisted himself into the room. Isobel stood, turning away from the ladder and the king, making as if she was looking around the small chamber. Her fingers ran absently through the ends of her hair, her eyes glued to the floor beneath her feet. Cailan held the ladder for the three who followed - Alistair, Godfrey, and Arryn. She was a small, slight thing - an elf and a mage, two traits most Fereldens readily reviled. After arriving that morning by chance, she'd been conducted into their little company without a word of protest from the girl, though she was looking mighty pale now.

Godfrey held out a hand to help her into the room, and she took it meekly. "Thank you, ser." Her voice was musical, and he bristled with pomp before bending his head in acceptance of the gratitude.

Everyone turned to Isobel, who was standing very close to the only door leading out of the room, her ear pressed to the wood. She could hear something on the other side, a familiar clanging and grunting that sent a chill straight through her. Cailan went to her side, leaning in to listen for himself. He turned away after only a moment, his lips curling downwards. "Corpses," he whispered. "We have to have some plan of attack."

Isobel nodded, "It'd be a lot more helpful if we had someone with use of a bow." Her eyes trailed from weapon to weapon, all swords and a mage. Why hadn't she thought of this before? "Arryn."

The elf turned to her, "Yes, ser?"

"Can you slow them down for us? We'll need time to get into position, and we won't have that long without your help."

Cailan watched Isobel as she ran through the ideas in her head aloud. From what little he knew of her, he was surprised to see that each tactic was sound. A girl of noble blood dishing out stratagem like it was a song learned from birth - he couldn't believe it. There was a rushed tremor in her voice, but her eyes were alight as her hands moved in time with her words. She enjoyed this. So he wasn't the only one who took pleasure from these sorts of things, no matter the severity of the problems at hand. He would have to ask her about this later.

With a approach decided upon, Isobel took a step back to allow Arryn to stand before the door. The Grey Warden fingered the latch, looking to the mage who nodded. She was ready. They were all ready. Ready for _what_ none of them truly knew.

Giving the door a hard shove, Isobel fell in behind the mage, her hands going to the grips of her weapons. The corpses at the other side of the room were on alert, and they broke off into a run at the sight of the mage. Arryn thrust her staff into the air, a wave of ice filling the room before them. The chill froze the demons where they stood, and the soldiers broke off into a run. The first three corpses went down without so much as a hesitation, but the last gave a chilling bellow before he fell, hitting the ground where he stood.

"They're all going to know you're here now," came a voice from their left. Isobel turned quickly, her sword lifted in defense, only to find a man standing behind a set of strong iron bars. He was visibly shaken, no doubt the aftermath of being nearly frozen by their mage.

"Who are you?" Isobel asked, taking a wary step forward, closer to the cell.

The man shrugged and shook his head, ragged black hair dusting the hallows of his cheeks. "What does it matter? I'm in a cell, and those _things_ are going to come and kill me now that you're here. I was doing well enough like this."

"Who _are_ you?" she asked again, her sword sliding between the bars to hover a hair's breadth from his throat. "Tell me now."

He took a step away from her, indifferent to her blade. "My name is Jowan. I was the young prince's tutor."

"And why is the young price's tutor in the dungeon?"

Isobel's attention to the prisoner grasped that of the rest, and they all stood, staring at this man for no particular reason. "Isobel, we should focus on more important things," Alistair interjected, but she waved him off.

"I… Well, I suppose there's nothing keeping me from telling the truth now, is there?" Jowan cleared his throat, pacing the floor nervously. The man was full of energy and fear, and he moved around like a caged animal. "I was the one who poisoned -"

Jowan's eyes widened at the sight of Cailan, who'd finally stepped up beside Isobel to take a look at the prisoner. The king went white, his mouth falling into a line. "You're the bastard who poisoned my uncle, aren't you?"

"Maker's breath," Jowan whimpered. It was as if he'd seen a ghost. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't expect to see _you_ here. I didn't even think you were still alive. Loghain said you were dead. I… I believed him. How did you survive? Why are you here? If that thing sees you, it'll, it'll..."

"Speak!" Cailan roared. "Loghain sent you? How much gold did he pay you to murder my uncle, mage? How much!?"

"E-enough, your Majesty," Jowan replied. His head fell, ashamed. "Please, I know how it seems. Poisoning the arl was a terrible, _terrible_ thing, but I'm not behind everything else that's happening here! I swear it!"

"Do you think that's enough for us to let you go?" Isobel asked him. "Your word is worth little more than dust as it is. We cannot trust you so far as we can throw you."

Jowan went to take a step forward, closer to the bars, but hung back when he saw a feral gleam in Cailan's blue eyes. "I-I know it looks suspicious, but I'm not responsible for the creatures and the killings in the castle." A vein of desperation ran through his voice, but there was a sincerity there that rang true. "I was already imprisoned when all that began!"

"For poisoning my uncle!" Isobel reached out and grasped Cailan's arm, turning him to her. His eyes were wide with rage, and his breathing was difficult. He could hardly think for all that he wanted to say. "We can't just let him _go_. No. No, that's not even an option. We kill him now and rid ourselves of some wretched man clawing at our backs while we're trying to save Eamon."

"I'm not _stupid_," Jowan protested. "There's five of you. You're all heavily armed. If anything, I'd be safer trying to help you than hurt you."

Cailan ignored Jowan completely, staring down at Isobel. "I refuse to let you do this. You have to listen to me. I'm your _king_." At the word, Isobel's eyebrows furrowed. He'd pulled rank on her, something she hadn't expected coming into this. "We kill him now."

"He doesn't have to die," Alistair intoned from behind him. "Surely he could be of some use to us."

"I recognize him." Everyone turned to Arryn, who'd spoken up for the very first time since they'd met those few hours ago. "He is a very powerful mage. He could help us reverse this."

"Give me a chance," Jowan pleaded, his hands curled around the bars of the cell. "Please." Cailan glared at him. The mage took an unconscious step back. "I can help your uncle. I can try to reverse the poison."

Cailan took a deep breath. He nodded to Isobel.

"I'm letting you out of your cell." She slipped the key into the lock, the look on her face doubling the warning. "Don't try anything."

"You're letting me out?" Jowan asked, his voice full with disbelief. "And what then?"

"You come with me. That's what."

Jowan shook his head, moving away from the cell's door. "I'm… not sure that's a good idea."

Isobel opened the cell. She was tired of waiting. She was tired of wasting time with this ridiculous mage who'd only caused trouble for the people who employed him. She wanted to finish this conversation. "Beggars can't be choosers," she growled, offering him the open door. "Come or stay there."

"Then I will wait." Jowan waved his hand toward the open door, "If you change your mind, I will be here."

"I don't care what you do, mage," was her frustrated reply. "You're on your own."

At that, Jowan's expression changed. Fear faded into conviction. "No, I'm not leaving." He advanced, leaving his cell and watching Isobel shut the door behind him. "I made a mistake, and I'm going to find some way to fix it."

That was the last the group saw of Jowan for the time being. He disappeared into the castle, and he was out of their minds. Or, at least, all of their minds save for one. After slaying two more groups of corpses, there was a long stretch of silence. Isobel moved beside Cailan. He knew this castle like the back of his hand, something that came in handy when faced with the winding halls, multiple floors, and locked doors.

No one spoke while they made their way through the halls. Silence was almost worse than the sound of approaching clumsy footsteps. Try as she might, Isobel found it difficult to focus entirely on where they were going. Instead, doubt clawed at the back of her mind. Cailan surely hated her for letting the mage go free. She showed compassion to a man who didn't deserve it. She might've orchestrated their undoing with her own two hands and soft heart.

Battle was slowly becoming second nature to the Grey Warden. Around every corner came a new foe, seemingly stronger than the last. Corpses made way into demons from the Fade. They screeched and screamed like nothing she'd ever heard before. And their claws felt as if they were made from fire.

The deeper they ran into the castle, the more difficult everything became. They were slowing down. Still, Cailan's insistence to keep strong kept spirits high. They were close. A maid called Valena, the daughter of Redcliffe's blacksmith, offered them helpful information. Isolde and Connor were in the main hall. "That's not far off," Cailan told Isobel. She could tell he was relieved.

Godfrey stepped forward to the door leading into the main hall. He tried the handle. "It's locked."

"Looks like we'll have to go in through the front doors after all," Cailan offered, a hint of a smile on his face. Isobel found herself rolling her eyes again, but she, too, was smiling. Just a little. He caught sight of it, and his own widened.

Forcing himself to sober his expression, Cailan cleared his throat. "I have a feeling this won't be easy," he admitted. "Not that any of this has been. Whatever darkness there is in this castle is strong. I want you all to be careful." While his warning was for all of them, his last sentence was focused almost entirely on Isobel.

She nodded. "I don't know what's out there, but it'll be there no matter how long we stand around here, waiting." With that, they made their way out of the castle and into the courtyard.

There, another skirmish waited for them. It was expected. More fighting, more bloodshed, more demons slipped from out of the Fade by whatever drove the darkness within Castle Redcliffe. It was impossible to escape. No battle ever ended with someone walking right through the front door to victory.

Godfrey ran to open the gate and let Ser Perth's soldiers into the courtyard. Arryn stayed far away from the battle, casting spell after spell, just as Alistair threw himself into the fray without so much as a second thought.

Cailan was just about to engage a corpse when Isobel turned and saw it. It was taller than everything they'd faced so far, head and shoulders above the stately king. The sword it carried was massive, and the shield could've deflected a blow from anything the group fought with. Isobel's mouth fell open as she shouted for Cailan to turn. She ran forward, plunging her sword through the middle of the corpse before drawing her blade and thrusting it in again.

The King staggered backwards at the sight of the demon, his eyes wide and his mouth moving without making a sound. He was easily pushed out of the way by Isobel, who stood before the enormous being. Feet firm and shoulders square, she faced him, her sword and dagger raised. Bluffing; she was bluffing. Inside, she was cowering away from this monster. She wanted nothing more than to turn away and run or to fall to her knees and just accept her end. She scarcely heard Cailan call for Alistair and Godfrey to help her.

The beast brought his sword down of Isobel, and she tried her best to parry the blow, falling to her knee to compensate for the weight of the blade and his strength. Giving a frustrated cry, Isobel thrust her blades upwards, knocking the demon's sword just far enough away from her to stand up and take a swing. It howled when her sword dug into the purple flesh of its thigh, fighting back with a swift kick.

Isobel was tossed aside like a rag doll, hitting the stone pavement in a clatter of armor and gasping. She scrambled up from the ground to see the two soldiers advance on the beast. Cailan thought better of it and had run to help Ser Perth's men in getting rid of the remaining corpses. Alistair and Godfrey were strong, skilled fighters, but they stood no chance on their own. Instead of waiting for her own bumps and bruises to begin to sing, Isobel gripped her sword and raced forward. The beast seemed disoriented at having to fight off three soldiers, but he kept on, swinging and thrashing.

Alistair bore the blunt of a hard hit on his head, and he crumpled to the ground. The longer their fight wore on, the more hopeless it seemed to be. This _thing_ had to have some weakness. Isobel watched as she fought, looking for some space in his armor, some soft spot to hit. As it lifted its arm to thrust its sword at Godfrey, a long line of purple flesh was bared to her. Without a second thought, Isobel lifted her sword above her head with both hands and drove into its side.

It fell to its knees and then to the ground, writhing for a moment before coming to a dead stop.

With Arryn's healing, the five of them gathered at the fallen demon. Alistair rubbed the back of his head as he looked down at it. "That can't be the worst of them," he sighed, "It can't be."

"Always the optimist, I see," Isobel harrumphed. "Morale's fine without you raining doubt all over us."

"This has to be the worst of it for now," Cailan assured her. For once she was glad to feel his heavy hand on her shoulder. She was angry with him for running away, but she understood faintly why he did it. The last thing he'd seen that large had nearly killed him.

Isobel sighed. "We should go. I don't think we have much time."

* * *

**  
A/N:** I want to thank you all for such nice reviews! They all really mean a lot to me. It makes me happy to know that there are a ton of Cailan lovers out there, and that they think I'm doing the man justice. :) Expect chapter six very soon!


	6. Chapter 6

None of them expected to find what they did. Jowan's terror suddenly made sense, and his interrupted warning now echoed in Cailan's ears.

The Revenant seemed to be a distant memory to the soldiers. Not that the being before them was larger or poised to cause more physical harm than the dead behemoth. This was a different kind of terrifying, a different kind of dangerous. And it was only fit that such a threat would be housed within the body of a child.

Instead of hanging a few steps behind Cailan, Isobel stepped forward, a slender, well-armed barrier between the king and the abomination. The action itself she made without thinking. She could hardly remember the sound of Duncan's death throes. His whisper was faint now, a memory that felt almost fabricated. The meaning behind the words stood while the sound faded away. She took what was bid of her seriously, no matter the cost. To protect Cailan was more than just a duty. It was a privilege.

At first, the King was too shocked to notice the young woman step in front of him, but seconds ticked by and he soon found himself nudging her out of the way in order to move closer to the boy. She gave a quiet protest, but he could hardly hear her.

"Ah, cousin," the boy at the head of the room said in greeting. There was a distance to his voice, as if he were standing in the back of a cavern not mere feet away. Each word was followed by an almost feminine echo. Arryn shifted on her feet, the only physical reaction to the entire group's discomfort at the haunting sound.

Bann Teagan sat at the boy's feet, staring up at him with a wide grin on his face that rivaled Connor's manner of speech in eeriness. Isolde stood to her son's right, a look of utter defeat on her delicate features. The Bann laughed - a high pitched giggle that threatened to steal the mage's breath away. Connor shot his uncle an annoyed look, and the man silenced himself, turning away as if chastened.

"I can't say I expected to see _you_ here," he said, taking a step down from in front of the fire. "I thought you were dead."

"Many assumed so," Cailan replied. He was really getting tired of hearing those words. He wasn't dead, and it was obvious by his appearing in the flesh that he was, in fact, very much alive. "Who are you, and what are you doing here, creature?"

Connor gave a rippling laugh, "That's not a very nice way to speak to your own flesh and blood, Cailan."

"Connor is my flesh and blood. You. You are not Connor."

The boy's face distorted in an expression that would normally rouse pity within the king. Dejected, upset, and maybe even a little afraid. He knew it was a ploy to keep his attention, to perhaps prey on some small sensitivity. It wasn't enough, and Cailan stood his ground, hand clasped around the grip of his long sword. When the boy took a step forward, Cailan sidestepped, his eyes narrowed into the seemingly empty blue ones of his own kin.

"But I am Connor. Ask my mother!" Tossing his head over his shoulder, he looked to Isolde, who stood wringing her hands and sobbing silently near the fire. "Mother!" Connor barked. Eyes wide, Arl Eamon's young wife snapped to attention, her hands going to her mouth to stifle a gasp. "Tell Cailan that I'm Connor. The fool can't recognize me."

Between her strangled sobs and the violent shaking of her head, the woman could hardly say a word. That monster was not her son. It was her little boy's body, but that was all. There were moments when her darling boy's personality would surface as if out of thin air, but those moments were few and far between.

"She's lying," Connor said simply. "I am her son." He sighed, looking from face to face of those gathered. "You brought quite an army with you, cousin." Sarcasm weighed heavily on each word, and a smirk teased the boy's mouth. He wasn't impressed. "I expected more from the King of Ferelden. You _bore_ me."

"We have men outside," Cailan piped up. He wanted nothing more than to feel some reassurance from the four who followed him, but he couldn't take his eyes off of his young cousin. To look back to Isobel would be considered a weakness. He had to be strong. There was no other option. "Men from town, men who fought through the night and killed every single creature in your undead army. We may number only five, but we have strength where your brainless minions do not."

As he spoke, his presence seemed to grow, and soon it filled the long room. The heat from the massive fire at the end of the hall could hardly match the warm timbre of his voice. This was the voice of a king. This was a leader.

When Isobel found herself unable to look away from Connor only moments before, she looked to Cailan when he began to speak. Her heart filled itself up at the sound. She looked to Alistair and Godfrey only to see that they were experiencing something similar - a much needed lift in morale. While they'd all seen Cailan experience weakness first hand, his conviction in his words now shirked every poor opinion of him in a string of sentences. "You cannot fight with the undead, cousin, for they have nothing to fight for. Such an esteemed strategist like yourself would know that. I am not surprised that you were defeated, and that you will be defeated again."

Connor giggled in an attempt to seem nonchalant, but there was a tremor there that hadn't existed before. "I grow tired of your company," he smirked. "I am going to go check on my father." The boy took a step back, head tilted to look up into Cailan's face. "I would wait around to see how you all fare against live foes, but… I have a feeling that won't go very well. For you, at least." Before he let his ominous words sink in, he turned and ran from the room.

Connor's sudden retreat was punctuated by the entrance of nearly a dozen possessed soldiers through doorways on either side of the hall. They were armed to the teeth and wearing stronger armor than the others. Alistair and Godfrey were the first to be engaged, and Arryn took refuge near the back of the room.

Without so much as a word of warning, Bann Teagan rose from his place near the fire, drawing his sword from its sheath and lunging at Cailan. The king's eyes widened as he lifted his sword in a wide arc to parry the blow. "Uncle! What are you doing!?" Dread clung to every word. The man's eyes were muddy; emotionless. He, too, was possessed. Heaving the man backwards, Cailan watched as Teagan fell backwards, nearly smashing his head into the stone floors.

Isolde screamed, fingers clawing at her lips as she pressed herself to the wall. If she was able, she would've sunk into it. Anything to get away from this madness.

"Cailan, watch your back!" Godfrey hollered just quick enough for Cailan to whip around and dodge a blow from the soldier's mace. Ducking to the side, he took advantage of the soldier's uneven footing and pushed him backwards as he had Teagan. The soldier staggered before regaining his position and lunging at the king a second time. This time, Cailan was ready, and he thrust his sword forward, nearly missing the small slit of flesh between the soldier's armor and helmet.

Blood gushed out of the wound, spraying a fine mist onto Cailan's face. Wiping at his eyes, he was just quick enough to fall to one knee and avoid a slash from the blade of his uncle. He didn't want to hurt him. He wanted Teagan to wake from this thrall before he was forced to cut him.

Isobel kept her eyes on the king as she fought attacked one of the archers near the back of the room. As she slid the now limp figure from her blade, her eyes widened. Teagan. Teagan was going to kill him if he didn't kill him first. The man was possessed, it was no longer his uncle. It was clear to her that Cailan was not the sort of man to readily accept that knowledge. Hoisting herself up onto the long wooden dining table that led directly to the king, Isobel rushed forward, narrowly avoiding the clumsy swords of the crazed soldiers.

One soldier held out an arm, and before she saw it, she was toppling forward. She was able to catch herself from planting her face into the table, but just barely. "Cailan!"

The king tore his eyes from his uncle just long enough to see her face. Teagan reached forward and grabbed Cailan by his armor, yanking him up to his face, his sword poised to deliver a killing blow. Cailan could feel the cold metal against his throat, and he shut his eyes. He didn't want the last thing he saw to be his uncle possessed by a demon spirit.

He could see himself as a child, fair and full of energy, bouncing behind his mother and father wherever they went in the castle. He saw himself as a young boy, battling servants and tutors with his fine wooden sword, his mood blackened by the death of his mother. His teenaged years were very much a blur. Celebrations, his marriage to Anora, Loghain's small, aberrant smile of acceptance. Five years passed without much difference until the beginning of the Blight. Then there was the battle at Ostagar. He saw himself waking to find Isobel sitting, cross-legged, on the ground beside his bedroll. She didn't look like the gentle sort, but her touch spoke volumes to the contrary. The night outside of the Chantry. She'd pulled him so close he could feel the warmth emanating from her despite the frigid chill in the air. The feeling of accomplishment. Her smile.

Everything faded into blackness, and Cailan was roused from his reverie as he felt Teagan let go of his armor. He staggered backwards to see the hilt of Isobel's dagger sticking out of his uncle's calf. The man howled in pain, his pitching to and fro intensifying as she jerked the blade downwards.

Cailan turned around to see that the battle was finished. Godfrey sat collapsed against the table where Arryn tended to his wounds. Ser Perth and Alistair picked through the corpses, looking for any potential threat. And Bann Teagan lay on the floor, biting his tongue so hard it nearly bled as Isobel tried her hardest to remove the blade. "I-I'm so sorry," she stammered. "It… it. I had to do it. You were going to kill Cailan!"

"Hush, girl," he groaned. "I'm glad you did it, just please stop shaking and get that thing out of me so I can try to fix it."

Cailan felt woozy. He placed himself gently on the bench that ran along the dining table, his shoulders caving inward as much as his armor would allow. He'd felt it. He'd felt death. This was the second time in only a handful of days, and he didn't much care for it. But at Ostagar, when the ogre had him in its grasp, he'd seen something different. While his life had flashed before his eyes, as men and women often said it did when facing near certain death, it ended with that battle. It ended with the clashing of swords and the blood and the death.

Glancing up from his clasped hands, he watched as Isobel tenderly tried to remove her dagger. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, and he could see the end of her tongue poking out through her teeth. She leaned backwards to take a break from the task, running an arm across her forehead to dust her hair out of her eyes. "Arryn," she called to the mage. "When you are finished with Godfrey, I could use your help."

Just as everything settled down, there was a scuffle on the far end of the room and the door opened. Ser Perth and his men drew their swords, only to find that Jowan was standing there. His already pale skin blanched to the color of snow. "I-I'm not possessed, if that's what you're wondering," he said, feebly lifting his palms in submission. "I heard the fighting. And the arlessa's screams."

Isolde looked up from Bann Teagan at the sound of the mage's familiar voice. Her gentle demeanor was instantly changed. "What is he doing here!? Ser Perth - arrest this man! _Again_." She turned to look at Cailan. "Who let that foul man out of his cell? Do you know?"

"I -," Isobel began, but she was cut off by Cailan, who stood. "I do know who let him out of his cell. It was my decision. He said he could help us."

"Help us?" Isolde gasped, obviously scandalized by such a prospect. "How would you _help us_?"

"I… I know how to save Connor."

Isolde's face seemed to freeze. Her lips parted, eyes wide and unblinking, hand hovering in midair. This man had broken her trust before. He'd poisoned her husband, and for all she knew, he'd let those demons loose in Castle Redcliffe. Why did he sound so… genuine? Why did she feel like he was telling the truth? "You… you could help Connor?" she asked, her voice meek in comparison to the one that still rung in Jowan's ears.

He took a step forward, avoiding the piercing eyes of Ser Perth's men. "Yes," he said, "I can help him." He gulped, looking to Arryn and then to Cailan. "I have a feeling you won't agree with the only way I know to help, though."

"Tell me," Isolde pleaded, rushing to the man she'd regarded with such hate moments before. "Please, tell me how you can save my Connor."

"There must be a…" Jowan took a deep breath, looking nervously from face to face. "A sacrifice. And a mage willing to enter the Fade."

"A sacrifice!?" Cailan shouted. "Are you mad? We won't have you using blood magic right before our very eyes! Who is to say that you won't betray us again? Do we look like fools to you?" Jowan's eyes fell to the floor before him, and he shook his head. Cailan nodded, "I didn't think so. What are the other options? There must be other options."

What Jowan said brought another wave of tears to Isolde's eyes. "You must kill the boy."

"No!" the arlessa shrieked, running to grasp Jowan's hands in her own. The mage shrunk away from her touch, but she did not let go. "You must go through with the sacrifice. I cannot let you kill my little boy. This is the only way!"

"But it's _not_, Isolde," Teagan reminded her as he struggled to stand with the help of Isobel. Arryn pressed her hand to the wound once more for good measure, and he nodded his thanks to her. "Eamon would not agree with you. He would want to keep you safe; he loves you."

Isolde shook her head. "He would not want to see his only son murdered, not for anything." She glanced over her shoulder at her husband's brother, her eyes gleaming with tears. "I have to do this. It is a mother's duty to protect her children."

Isobel felt a lump rise in her throat, and she looked away from Isolde's pained expression as her eyes watered. She could see her mother. That memory had a clarity that others did not. It was as if someone carved it into her mind. Her mother bent over her dying father, urging her to leave their home with Duncan, reminding her that she was loved. Isobel cursed herself for her sentimentality. When she looked back to Isolde, she saw Cailan was looking at her, his brow creased in concern. She could hardly meet his eyes. She blinked her tears away with the reminder that there was no room in this moment for her own grief.

"The ritual must be done," Isolde murmured. There was a surety in her voice, a finality. Everyone knew that she wouldn't be swayed. This was her decision.

Jowan nodded solemnly. "I will need a mage to go forth into the Fade and kill the demon," he said softly, looking to Arryn. "You seem to be the only one here… Will you go?" Arryn nodded, looking to Godfrey and then Cailan. There was regret in her features, but also a resolve that filled those who looked upon her with faith. All of this had happened by chance. Her venturing into the Fade would prove her worth to these men if she hadn't already.

As they readied for the ritual, Isobel watched Isolde as she spoke quietly with Jowan. The mage's gentle nature smoothed over any doubts or anger that remained in the young woman, and she was beginning to feel safe in his hands. Arryn was ready, already standing in the center of the room, her conversation with Godfrey summed up in glances and gazes alone. Alistair, upset by Isolde's decision to go through with the ritual, had left the room, flanked by a few of Ser Perth's men.

Cailan was standing near the fire, arms crossed over his chest with his back to the flames.

Isobel steadied herself as she watched Isolde move into the center of the room. She was all determination, from her eyes to her set jaw. _I can't stay here_, Isolde thought. _I can't see this._ Her stomach churned as she pulled her shoulders back and tried to root herself to the ground. No matter how young the arlessa was, all she could see was her mother. She couldn't stay. She had to leave.

Without bothering to say a word to anyone, Isobel left the hall. She couldn't even garner the courage to look at Cailan, and she shut the door harder behind her than she'd expected. Pressing her back to the door, she let herself slowly slide to the floor, her legs splayed out before her and her hands lifted to her face.

The moment she was alone, tears began to run down her cheeks. It'd been nearly three weeks since she'd left Highever. In those three weeks, she'd not shed more than a stray tear here and there for her mother and father. Now they flowed, unabated, pooling in the palms of her hands.

So immersed was she in her own feelings, she did not hear Alistair approach, concerned at hearing her sobs and curious to see who it was crying. He stopped in his tracks the moment he recognized her. In his short time knowing her, she'd proven herself to be almost impassive when it concerned her emotions. It was odd to see her like this, and yet he could relate. He'd often wished he had enough alone time to grieve properly for Duncan, but it was impossible when surrounded by men. Any show of weakness would be met with merciless mocking.

A part of him yearned to go to her, to show her some compassion in hopes that she might show some in return, but he stopped himself. It was clear that she wanted to be alone. With that thought in mind, he turned around and departed the way he came.


	7. Chapter 7

"So, Denerim, huh?"

Alistair settled down near the fire. The entire group encircled the tall flames, and they were in oddly cheerful spirits. After Arryn successfully defeated the demon within Connor, Bann Teagan pulled Cailan aside to give him news of his uncle. Arl Eamon had not recovered, but there was a newfound hope. One of his men had unveiled a possible heading. A brother in Denerim by the name of Genitivi was said to be researching the Urn of Andraste.

As far as any physicians or mages could tell, only the prophet Andraste's ashes could heal the dying arl. Cailan insisted this was a worthy quest, even if it would lead them far away from the task at hand. The others could wait. "Family comes before glory," he said. Hearing those words come out of his mouth nearly shocked those gathered to death. He surprised even himself and gave a little nervous chuckle before quickly changing the subject.

"Yeah," Isobel smiled. "Denerim. How long has it been since you were there?"

"Huh." Alistair kicked back. It was odd seeing him without his armor. In all of her time knowing him, she's only caught him in such casual attire once or twice. The lack of heavy plating made him look smaller. "It's been years, I think. I traveled there a few times with the sisters to visit the Chantry there. Other than that… I don't even remember. I suppose I went there a few times as a child, with Eamon."

Isobel nodded, bringing her knees up against her chest. Across from them, Cailan was talking with Godfrey and the rest of his men - the ones who hadn't been able to follow them into Castle Redcliffe. His expression was animated, as were his wide, sweeping gestures. Despite the gravity of their current quest to find Brother Genitivi and the magnitude of Arl Eamon's current condition, he was smiling and laughing, lapping up each shout of praise from his men.

He was truly a sight to behold. Without his armor, he still cut an intimidating figure, one inherited from his father. With his long, golden hair and boyish smile, he was the picture of a hero. His arm was completely mended now due in no small part to Arryn's excellent skill with healing, and he was back to his usual self from what Isobel could tell. This was the man she met the day she arrived at Ostagar. As he stood and gave a show of the killing blow he gave a shrieking demon, his men clapped and cheered and they were completely his again. The army was lost and many had died, but there was still hope. It was amazing to watch.

"Oi! Isobel," Alistair nudged her in the arm. She tore her eyes away from Cailan and looked to him. She didn't _mean_ to glare at him, but he winced regardless. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't know I was interrupting anything." She could hear the sarcasm in his voice. He hated it when people didn't pay attention to him, especially if they were talking. "When's the last time you were in Denerim? You asked me. I felt I should reciprocate."

"Oh," Isobel chuckled. "Hmm. The last time I was in Denerim, I was with my brother Fergus. We'd gone to find my mother a gift for her birthday. It was a fairly long trip, and I got sick on the way. He swore up and down that I'd have to suck it up and get better because he wasn't going to turn around."

Alistair tried his hardest not to laugh and ultimately failed. "He really said that? Sounds like quite a trooper." He paused, "The both of you, actually."

"Me?" Isobel laughed with him. "A trooper? I was barely thirteen! I wanted to go home!" She grinned at the memory of her coughing and sneezing in Fergus's direction for the entire week-long trip. "By the time we reached Denerim, he'd gotten so sick of my complaining that he tried to sell me to the highest bidder." She heaved a heavy sigh. "My brother loved me so."

With that, they both nearly burst with laughter.

At the sound of the two cackling like crows, Cailan's story came to a shuddering halt and he looked towards them. Isobel was grasping Alistair's arm to keep herself from falling over, her mouth wide and eyes shut tight as she laughed. He wiped a tear from his eye as he patted her hand, his own belly laugh filling the campsite. As they both quieted, Isobel clutched at her stomach, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

The men to his right begged him to continue his story. They were all eager to hear how he'd slain demons and helped save the arl's possessed son. "Just one moment," Cailan promised, "I have a much better idea."

He left his side of the fire and strode up to Isobel and Alistair. The two looked up at him, laughter still in their eyes. "Yes, your Majesty?" Isobel asked, a brow lifted in curiosity. "Is there something we can do?" Cailan nodded, holding out a hand to her. She merely looked at it.

"I'd like it very much if you told the men of slaying the revenant." He gave a tight smile to Alistair. "They enjoy such stories, you know. And your story, Isobel, should have them riveted."

"That thing almost killed me," she reminded him, "But… sure. I guess." Placing her hand in his, she lifted herself off of the ground. She looked back to Alistair. The man didn't look very pleased with this turn of events. Not pleased at all. "Come on, Alistair. You _helped_." The barbed comment with directed with very little grace towards Cailan, though she wouldn't have been surprised if he was unaware of it. Slipping her hand out of Cailan's, she offered it to her fellow Grey Warden. "Up you come. We shall tell the story in turns. And I'd appreciate it if you left out the part where he flicked me off of him like a bug."

Alistair grinned, taking her hand and hoisting himself up. "Aw, must I? But that's my favorite part." He gave a pained "oof" when Isobel elbowed him in the ribs. Rubbing them, he chuckled. "Fine, fine, I'll leave it out."

_Well_, Cailan thought, _that didn't exactly go as well as I'd hoped._ He shrugged it off, graciously accepting the two Grey Wardens over to the other side of the fire, where his men waited, curious to what was going on. When they saw Alistair and Isobel following him over, they were whipped into a similar excitement as they had earlier. Godfrey was all but beaming at the two of them, finally tearing his attention away from the elf at his side.

"Isobel here is a hero in her own right," Cailan gushed, taking her by the hand to pull her out in front of the men. "If it wasn't for her, I would have been killed by the _revenant_." The gravitas in Cailan's voice at the word sent a wave of respect through the crowd. It sounded like he was telling a story of ghosts and ghouls, not actual events that were still fresh in her mind. And for some bizarre reason, it rubbed her the wrong way. "It was at least seven feet tall, perhaps more," Cailan continued, "with purple flesh and armor as thick as dragon scales. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen before."

"It was enormous!" Godfrey shouted, "I never thought we'd be able to bring him down."

Isobel looked to Alistair, unsure if she should say anything. He shrugged. "It was a difficult fight," she began, her voice unsteady. "It wasn't easy. I had half a mind to turn and run." Her eyes went to Cailan. He was staring at her, nearly as rapt as his men, but his expression changed when he saw the critical glint in her eyes. "We're going to be facing many of those same foes on the road ahead, so don't think lightly of them. Or you _will_ end up dead."

She hated being the bearer of bad news, but it was the truth. She knew it was. If someone went into a fight knowing they'd win, it weakened them in some small way. Overconfidence would lead to defeat. If anyone in this campsite should've known that, it was Cailan. His own audaciousness led to him being betrayed and nearly killed on the battlefield. Surely he wouldn't lead his men directly to the same fate.

But there was something childlike about the king, and it was that which kept him from realizing the magnitude of what he was doing. Even after five years on the throne, he was still merely playing king. The only difference was that he had a real sword this time and peoples' lives were on the line. There was something alluring about the life of a hero. Everyone seated around the fire had no doubt dreamt of such things at least once in their lives. To be heralded as a savior, to be lifted up in the esteem of your peers - it was a common aspiration. The king, however, seemed unable to realize that that was all it was. A dream.

The men seemed unhappy with her sudden seriousness, and they shifted uncomfortably as silence overcame them all. Instead of continuing her tirade and not giving Cailan the chance to glorify her, Isobel turned away from them and left. Everything was still fresh. Her meltdown in Castle Redcliffe left her feeling exposed; vulnerable.

Passing up her tent, Isobel made her way into the forest. The foliage was thick and the air was chilly, but she could've cared less. She hugged her arms around herself as she made her way to the brook where she'd washed up earlier that day. She felt ridiculous for running away like that, but she couldn't stand it. She couldn't bear to hear Cailan elevate her to something she was not. She wouldn't let him lift her up as he did with himself. No matter how many demons she forced from this world or how many times she'd saved his life, she was still some young girl who didn't know top from tail most days.

Isobel bent down near the stream, plucking up a pebble from the frigid water. The moonlight made everything so beautiful. She preferred the darkness to the bright sunlight of midday, a fact which often got her odd looks from her friends. Running her fingers over the smooth rock, she peered at it, admiring the soft gleam it seemed to give off in this light. She was just slipping it into her pocket when she heard the crunching of leaves and branches behind her. Her breathing slowed and her entire body tensed. She wanted to turn around, but something stopped her.

It wasn't until there was a loud _swat_ and the being moving through the woods cursed aloud that she knew it wasn't an attacker. It also wasn't Alistair, that was for sure, as she'd never heard the Grey Warden utter so many profanities at once. "No need to be frightened! It's only me!"

She let her breath out in a sigh. Cailan. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than for it to be Alistair. She didn't want to talk to Cailan. She didn't want to be in the same _space _as Cailan. Nonetheless, she could hardly tell him to leave her be. He was still the king. Struggling to move through the much smaller path she'd made, he hopped over the final stump, giving a triumphant chuckle when he finally made it out of the brush.

Making his way over to Isobel, he stood beside her near the stream. He was almost rendered speechless by this spot. It was magnificent in an almost spiritual way. "You make it hard to find you," he said. His voice was much quieter, as if he didn't want to disturb the peace of the moment. "I nearly got a branch in the eye back there."

Try as she might, Isobel couldn't keep herself from giving a quiet chuckle. He was almost sweet in his innocence. It was the very thing that annoyed her most about the king, but at times it was also the most charming. Biting down on her lip, she stood from her crouched position. "I didn't really want to be found, actually."

"Oh?" Cailan replied, glancing up and down the stream, "Why ever not? We can't continue on without our hero." He looked to her, a good natured smile dimpling his cheek.

"Your Majesty, please," Isobel protested, her irritation evident.

Lifting a hand, he silenced her. "Cailan."

"Cailan," she repeated. His name felt odd on her lips. "I'm not a hero. I… I don't _want_ to _be_ a hero. It's incredibly stressful. I could do without the added pressure." She felt a weight lifted off of her shoulders at her admission.

Cailan gave a quiet, thoughtful _huh_, before turning away from her to look back at the stream. "I'm so used to everyone being so eager to be called a hero," he replied, a tremulous chuckle interwoven in his words. Crossing his arms, he continued, "So used to wanting to be one myself. Not a hero, eh?" He glanced at her, a smile tugging at his mouth as she shook her head. "Well, you're certainly not a damsel."

Isobel gave a quiet bark of laughter. "No, not a damsel. I'm not anything from those stories we heard as a child. You aren't, either." She looked up at him, lifting a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "No one actually _is_. Try as we might, we won't be heroes like those in the tales of old for a few hundred years. By then, I doubt anyone will even remember our names. Just our deeds, and even then they'll be so bloated and changed that it'll be like we never existed at all." She smiled. "They'll remember your name, though. You are a king, after all. History and whatnot."

_No one will remember Isobel Cousland, daughter of Bryce and Eleanor, one of the last of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden_, she thought to herself. And she would be better for it. To be remembered was also to be criticized for every decision made. That was another pressure she could do without. "You may have black hair in a few years, though. Or orange." Her smile was wicked, and Cailan found himself laughing.

"You mean, they won't remember me as the striking blonde that I am?" he asked. "And you, they'll remember you. I have no doubt of that. History seems pretty set on recording instances of beautiful warrior women."

Isobel's breath caught in her throat, and she turned away from him, unable to keep her cheeks from setting fire. She hoped the poor lighting would keep him from seeing the color that wasn't there moments before. "Well, thank the Maker I'm not homely, then. Else I should be forgotten before I'm even dead by the looks of it."

Cailan's fingers were chilly as they brushed across her cheek, down across her jaw, and to her chin. He tilted her face upwards so she would regard him. "That's not it," he murmured, his smile all but disappearing. It left a small curl in the corner of his mouth. "That's not it at all. I'm not sure what they'll say about you, but they will say something. You are a mystery, that's for sure." He took a deep breath, and Isobel felt herself drift forward slightly, closer to him. "When I figure you out, I will be sure to alert the historians."

She wanted to say something. She wanted to give him some sarcastic remark. Another part of her wanted to remind him that she didn't actually want to be remembered, not for anything. All she could do was stare up at him, lips parted, her entire being focused on the feeling of his fingers as they left her chin and brushed against the warm skin of her cheek. He didn't know that she was just as confused as she was. She scarcely knew what she was thinking on most days. The road to her own self-discovery was a long and winding one, and she had less than an idea of where it would end.

She could feel Cailan's eyes as he drank in every detail of her face. Freckles, her blush, a tiny scar above her brow - these things he'd never noticed before intrigued him. When his eyes fell to her mouth, he felt the intense urge to kiss her. She could feel him moving even closer to her. She could see him bending down, closing his eyes, parting his lips.

"I… _We_ should get back to camp," Isobel interrupted, taking a step back. Cailan's eyes shot open, overcome with shock for a split second before his features hardened. Her heart fell to her toes at the sight of the anger on his face. Gulping back the urge to apologize, Isobel gave him a small smile. "Arryn was cooking stew, wasn't she? We, uh, we wouldn't want to miss that." With that, she turned around and made her way back through the forest, leaving Cailan standing by the stream alone, feeling like a solid fool.

If there was one thing the king wasn't used to, it was rejection. Turning him down once was coy and almost attractive, but twice or more was frustrating. He was the bloody _king_, after all. What right had she to deny him in such a way? He was hurt, and it was this wicked emotion that made him feel like an imbecile. If she was any other woman, he'd have dusted himself off and moved on, but she _wasn't_ just any other woman. She was strong and beautiful and intelligent…

Should he find her flirting with that damned Alistair on his return to the campsite, he didn't know how he'd get through dinner. Jealousy was an sentiment he wasn't used to. It tasted like bile and felt even worse.

"No," he grimaced, "I don't suppose we would."

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**A/N: **Again, I want to thank you all for such encouraging reviews! You're all so sweet! I haven't enjoyed writing a story this much in such a long time, and it only makes me happier knowing that there are those out there who are enjoying it just as much as I am!


	8. Chapter 8

The group was one day's ride from Denerim when their high morale and fine pace came to a crashing halt. At least, Cailan saw it as such. It was catastrophic, this turn of events. But from a man prone to exaggeration, an ant hill often became a mountain.

Everyone, the two Grey Wardens included, was setting up camp for the night when Cailan emerged from his tent. Any bystander could tell that he was in ill spirits. It was written all over his face. He waved off any inquiries from his men as he crossed the campsite to where Alistair and Isobel were setting up their tent. She was humming a song - quite out of tune, but charming nonetheless, and Alistair seemed to be enjoying himself far too much for Cailan's liking.

The two of them hardly even noticed when the king stopped before them. It took Cailan clearing his throat to snatch Isobel away from the task at hand. Passing her forearm over her brow, she smiled. "Yes, your Majesty?" Her tone was too cheerful. It sounded odd, almost forced.

"I'd like to speak to you in my tent."

Alistair's brows shot up, but luckily he was tying the tent to a stake in the ground and the king could not see him properly. A soldier moving past them slowed when he heard the king, giving Isobel an appraising look. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he hurried about his business, not confident enough in his skills to offend the Warden.

"And why is that, your Majesty?" she asked, hands going to her hips. She was getting too mouthy. When they first met, she could've been easily compared to a mouse. "If you don't mind me asking, of course."

"Private matters," Cailan stated plainly.

Alistair almost choked. "Well, that was brazen," he murmured to himself, just loud enough for Isobel to hear. She looked down at him, trying her best to bite back a smile. He shrugged, finishing off his knot in silence. A lopsided grin slowly melted across his lips. He hadn't seen Cailan make her laugh. Or smile. And he surely didn't seem to care much about her stories. All he cared about was _his_ stories, about his own personal "glory."

Despite all his shortcomings, Cailan Theirin was still the king. He was still more powerful, richer, and a whole lot _prettier_. It helped Alistair's ego to imagine how the tables would be turned if he had been Maric's full-blooded son. He didn't necessarily want to be king, but he fancied himself to be more capable than Cailan and that was saying something.

"Might I finish setting up the tent first?" she asked, gesturing to the bit of rope she'd left untied near her feet. "All I ask is for a moment."

Cailan huffed. "Why not let Alistair finish up the job?" His lip twitched in a sneer. It ruined the balance of his face. "He seems to be doing well so far."

His comment left Isobel in shocked silence. Why was he acting like this? He hadn't been himself ever since they'd almost… Shaking her head, Isobel fell to her knees beside the rope. She picked it up, quickly beginning to continue her task. "I probably shouldn't leave such a chore to Alistair, else I may wake up to a ceiling of stars." She glanced up from the rope to her fellow Warden only to find that he was shooting her a look of phony dejection. Laughing to herself, she turned to look up at Cailan. "I'll be with you in a moment, your Majesty."

She noticed he'd not corrected her once this whole time. Evidently denying him a kiss retracted the consent to call him Cailan. She wasn't surprised in the least. Nor was she surprised when Cailan didn't speak another word to her. Instead, he turned and left the two of them for the insides of his own tent.

"That was awkward," Alistair said finally, sitting back on his heels. "I also don't appreciate you implying that I don't know how to set up a tent. We haven't been exposed to the cold yet."

Isobel grinned. "That's because I've been here to help." Finishing her knot with a flourish, she rocked backwards and stood, brushing off the knees of her trousers. She liked talking with Alistair. She didn't have to pretend with him, and there certainly weren't any titles, except for the few times when he'd slipped and referred to her as "my lady." He knew better than to do that now, having been thwacked in the back of the head once or twice because of it. "Now…" Her voice lowered. "What do you think Cailan wants with me?"

"Any number of things," Alistair said. "Maybe he wants you to braid his hair." Isobel snorted, reaching out to knock him in the shoulder. "Hey! It was just a thought. I've seen he has these pretty blue ribbons in his things…" When she gave him another joking punch in the shoulder, he couldn't help but laugh, cradling his arm. "Enough, enough!" His smile faded not long after. "Really, though, you should probably go. Men like him don't enjoy being kept waiting." _He lacks the brains to keep himself company_, he mused, though he felt badly for it not long after.

Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, Isobel nodded. That was true. Her father was one of those men, the ones who disliked being kept waiting. All men of title or affluence seemed to share that trait. Moving wordlessly towards Cailan's tent, she couldn't help but wonder what he wanted with her. He surely wasn't going to try to kiss her again. In truth, if their situation was different, she would've been all too willing to fall into his arms. If she hadn't seen the things she'd seen or done what she'd done. If she hadn't changed in such a base way.

She ducked into his tent to find him seated, pouring over a leather bound book. His brows were knitted together in concentration, his fingers combed through one side of his hair to keep it out of his eyes. When she sat down beside him, he looked up from the words to see who it was. "Ah, Isobel," he muttered. "Good to see you decided to join me."

"What are you reading?" she asked, leaning over close to get a better look at the writing. Cailan shut his eyes at the feeling of her pressed against his arm, closing the book with one hand and slipping it beneath his pillow. "My father's journal. Well, one of them." He cleared his throat, "I always keep that one with me. It has all my favorite stories in it."

Isobel nodded, moving away from him and crossing her legs. "What did you wish to speak to me about, your Majesty?" she asked. "You seemed… distressed."

Cailan looked back at her. "Troubling realizations, is all." She lifted an inquisitive brow, a sign that he should continue. "I cannot go into Denerim." While everyone spoke of this in private, they hadn't thought the king would grasp it. He was always so set on charging forth and worrying about repercussions later. Isobel suddenly felt terrible about all the scathing comments that had passed her lips in the previous days. His mask of detached annoyance was slipping, and she could see in his eyes that he was upset. He looked like a sparrow whose wings were caught in a trap. "I'd be recognized immediately. I have to stay here at the camp."

Who knew his being the former king of Ferelden would close more doors than it opened? He was not used to opportunities being snatched away from him. He didn't care for it much.

"That'll change soon enough," Isobel said, making an effort to soften her voice. Her mother often did that when she and her brother were younger in an attempt to calm them. While her words were firm, they were quiet and felt something like a warm embrace. "Once we can set everything right and put you back on your throne."

"But what if we fail?" Cailan's voice was nearly empty. A tremor ran through it, a testament to the terror he felt. In tales of old, the hero _never_ failed. Victory was always achieved in the end. But Isobel was so quick to remind him that this wasn't a tale of old. They weren't living out of some dusty tome. There was no sure victory, no brilliant fanfare waiting for them should they not make it to the very end. She hadn't meant to curb his enthusiasm to such an extent. His men would not be roused for battle by a king who could barely keep his own fear at bay.

"We _won't_ fail, Cailan." His expression brightened at the sound of his name, and Isobel found that it felt less clumsy on her lips. "We shall try our hardest, and we shall triumph." It wouldn't be easy, but when was anything easy? As a child, climbing her first tree had been the most difficult thing she'd accomplished up until that point. Now she could scale the tallest of trees without batting an eyelash.

Reaching out, Isobel grasped his hand in hers. The sudden contact shocked him, but the surprising warmth of her fingers and palm was comforting. She smiled to herself when she realized her hands were more calloused than his. Lacing her fingers with his, she tilted her head so she could look into his downcast eyes. "We will fix this. But only if you remember that you cannot do it on your own. You must allow us to help you." She paused, running the pad of her thumb over his knuckles. "Even if that means sitting at camp, fending off the darkspawn single handedly." Her smile faded from a reassuring one to something faintly wicked.

Cailan allowed himself a small smile. "You think I could take on a horde of darkspawn?" he asked, perking up. "A very small one?"

"Of course," she chuckled. "Maybe even a moderate sized one if you had a little help."

Outside of the tent, Godfrey and Arryn wandered over to Alistair, who was sitting near the fire. It was clear by the look on his face that he didn't want to be disturbed, but curiosity couldn't keep them at bay. The elfin mage sat beside Alistair on the fallen tree, smoothing over the dark green fabric of her robes. "Hello, Alistair," she greeted him.

He looked at her. "You're too cheerful sounding. What do you want?"

"We saw Isobel heading into the King's tent," Godfrey mused, bending down to pick up a stick. He fiddled with it absently, before breaking it in two and tossing it into the fire.

Alistair's eyes went from Arryn to his soldier friend. His expression did not change. "Yeah? What of it?"

There was a peal of laughter from the king's tent, and all three of them turned to look back at it. Arryn seemed delighted at the prospect, as did Godfrey, who shared a wide smile with the mage. Alistair, however, looked perturbed. It took all of his strength to muster a groan. So Cailan _did_ make her laugh. Goody. "Don't ask me about it. I know less about what's going on than you do."

"I've known Lady Anora for years, and I was present at King Cailan's wedding. And I swear to the Maker, they loved each other," Godfrey prefaced, "but he's changed. I think it's because of her."

"Really? You don't say," Alistair muttered, turning back around. There was a good chance that if he couldn't see the tent, it wouldn't exist, right? Kicking a bit of dust into the flames, he watched as it flared back at him, coating his face in heat. "He's also been dethroned, betrayed, and nearly killed. After all that, of course it's the pretty girl who changes him."

Arryn gave a little snort of derision. "There's no need to be jealous, Alistair. She's good for him."

"Jealous!? I'm not jealous." Without even attempting to veil the fact that he was, indeed, a tiny bit jealous, Alistair stood from his spot. "But I _am_ tired. Early morning. Long day. All that." He looked to Godfrey and then to Arryn. "Goodnight."

And then he turned and disappeared into his tent.

--

A few hours later, when most of the men had taken to their tents and only a few remained awake to guard the campsite, Isobel found her way back to her own in the dark. Her conversation with Cailan had turned to his father, a topic that he enjoyed speaking on no matter the hour. While she knew the history of King Maric, Cailan knew things only the most learned scholars discovered. He had his father's journals, after all.

Only stumbling twice was quite an achievement considering, and she tried her best to keep from waking Alistair as she went to settle in for the night.

As she passed him to get to her bedroll, she could see that he'd kicked off his heavy blanket and was now shivering. Wary about waking him, Isobel got to her knees beside him, gingerly lifting up his blanket and pulling it back up to his neck. He turned towards her, kicking his foot out, but not waking. She smoothed her hand over the blanket and smiled.

"Goodnight, Alistair."

--

The next morning was met with a surprisingly cheerful Cailan. He was the first one out of his tent, already fully clothed, his hair brushed and neatly tied away from his face with a pale blue ribbon. He even helped the men rekindle the fire and cook breakfast. They all seemed quite taken aback that the king was offering to assist them, even doubly so that he was in such a good mood. It certainly garnered forth a knowing nudge into Godfrey's ribs from Arryn, who waggled his eyebrows at her.

When everyone was out of their tents, the camp to remain set up and in that spot for the next few days, Cailan spoke up. "Today, a group will be sent in to Denerim to find Brother Genitivi," he began, his bowl of porridge still cradled in the palm of his hand. "I, as some of you may know, cannot venture into Denerim without being noticed." His men gave a murmur of agreement. "So, after _much_ deliberation…" He looked to Isobel, who gave him a small, sleepy smile before taking another bite of her breakfast. "I have chosen to send Alistair and Isobel into the city. The rest of you, men, and lady," he nodded to Arryn, "shall hang back and keep the camp safe for their return."

Despite the fact that many of them were being left behind, they all agreed with their King-commander's plans. It would be best to send the two Grey Wardens into the city. Traveling in a larger group would be dangerous, and surely the two of them would be able to handle their business swiftly and efficiently.

Alistair looked to Isobel, more than a little taken aback by this turn of events, only to see her grinning like a fool while she chewed her porridge. Furrowing his brow, Alistair set his spoon down in his bowl.

"What exactly went on in his tent?"

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**A/N:** I apologize for the short length of this chapter! After a very stressful day, I just wanted to get a little done, and... "a little" was a bit less than I expected! Hahah. Also, thank you all again for the reviews! They make every chapter worthwhile. :)


	9. Chapter 9

Traveling into Denerim with Alistair was no trying task. Their conversation was light, and they often made each other laugh at the smallest things. It was as if they both truly forgot about the Blight while in each others presence. Hours flew by like minutes as they walked beneath the thick canopy of trees, unaware of the position of the sun in the sky. Isobel told him stories about her life in Highever, about all her bumps and bruises and mishaps as a child. He proved to be a mischievous little thing in his younger years. The playful light in his eyes was not gone, despite his being older and perhaps a tiny bit wiser.

She loved hearing about his early life in Redcliffe. He spoke fondly of Arl Eamon and his younger brother, so fondly that curiosity struck more than once. She got no answers to her "meddlesome questions," though, since Alistair often side-stepped the conversation by moving on to another funny anecdote. When they finally reached a tall hill and were able to look across, they stopped for a moment.

"It's a lot bigger than I remember," Isobel laughed, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. "A lot busier. Then again, it's been years since I last saw it."

"You think there are any Orlesian shopkeepers with pretty ribbons for sale?" Alistair teased with a crooked grin. "The king might enjoy a gift in these harsh times." Not long before, he'd reminded Isobel of his correctness on the topic of Cailan and his fondness for ribbons. She laughed then, but she nudged him in the arm now.

Dusk was fast approaching by the time they reached the city. Brother Genitivi's home was not far from the entrance, thankfully, and Isobel suspected they'd arrive at his doorstep before the sun dipped below the horizon. The city was even more crowded than they expected, and Alistair found himself shifting and swaying to keep from knocking anyone with the bulky shoulder of his armor. This amused Isobel, and she watched with laughter in her eyes as he moved uncomfortably between the townsfolk.

By the time they reached their destination, the air was cooling down and the people were slowly leaving the streets to find their way home. Isobel reveled in the smell of a city. The market district smelled like roasting meat and leathers and foreign perfume. Each breath tasted different, and she found herself staring in awe at all the different stalls. It certainly wasn't this big the last time she was here.

"A brother's house right across the way from a tavern," Alistair murmured to himself, "Must come in handy."

Stifling a laugh, Isobel waved him off before balling a fist and knocking on the brother's door. It took three knocks and nearly another before the door was opened and an annoyed looking servant answered the door. He was of average height, just a bit shorter than Isobel, with dark hair and eyes. Eyes that were narrowed and sharp as daggers. At the realization of who stood on his master's doorstep, however, his expression shifted. She noticed his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You are here for Brother Genitivi, yes?" the young man asked, extending an arm to welcome them into the house. When Isobel nodded to him, he shut the door behind Alistair and conducted the two visitors into what appeared to be the dining room. "I regret to inform you that he departed some weeks ago for Lake Calenhad."

"The Circle Tower?" Alistair asked, puzzled. "What's he to do with the Tower? We were told by Bann Teagan of Redcliffe that Brother Genitivi was searching for the Urn of Andraste."

"Ah, yes," the man replied, "He is. Your bann is correct. His research has led him there."

There was something about this fellow that rubbed Isobel the wrong way. Still, she wasn't the sort of woman to act on impulse when the subject at hand had information. She let Alistair do the talking as she roamed around the small house, picking up books and looking over them. The first book was on the life of Andraste. The second, a history of Ferelden. It wasn't until she picked up the third and a slip of paper fell out of it that anything grasped her attention.

Over her shoulder, Alistair and the man were conversing about Genitivi's research. She could hardly understand a word either of them said, but not because she was clueless to the topic. It was because she lifted the slip of paper and unfolded it only to find a small map of Ferelden. On it, there was a circle scrawled in ink. While she was unfamiliar with the area it circled, she knew it wasn't anywhere near Lake Calenhad.

She turned around just in time to see the man turn to cast a nervous look over his shoulder. His eyes fell to the map in her hands. "What are you doing?" he snapped. "Put that down!"

Alistair's brow furrowed, his hand moving unconsciously to the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Isobel shook her head, brandishing the map at the man instead. "What is this?" Pointing at the circle, she looked from the apprentice to the map and back again. "A woman I may be, but I know that this isn't Lake Calenhad." Her finger shot across the paper. "This is Lake Calenhad."

Without so much as a word of warning, the man moved forward, quicker than anything she'd ever seen and definitely not human. A sweep of his arm sent Isobel soaring backwards. Books flew everywhere, cast off of the dining table as she slid across it to fall in a heap on the other side. Alistair drew his sword and lunged at him. He parried Alistair's first blow, falling to his knees against the warrior's strength.

Alistair grunted when he felt the sting of a dagger across his thigh and the warmth of his own blood over his skin. With one fell swoop and a frustrated growl, he lobbed the apprentice's head from his shoulders and watched as his body fell to the side with a dull _thud_. He glanced in Isobel's direction to see her rummaging in her backpack, seemingly unaffected by what just transpired. Sheathing his sword, he took a step forward, almost toppling forward on his injured leg.

Braced against the table, Alistair looked down at the body of Genitivi's _former_ apprentice. He caught the poultice tossed to him by Isobel and poured some of it out into his hand, smoothing it over the sliced and bleeding skin.

"You don't, uh, know how to-?" he heard Isobel ask. Glancing up from the quickly healing wound, he saw her standing in front of a tall door. "It's locked. And I don't…"

"Neither do I," he chuckled, putting the stopper into the small vial. "Didn't learn lock picking in Templar School."

Isobel shrugged, casting off her sword and shield. She wasn't going to actually… Alistair bit back a grin as she thrust her shoulder into the door. He could hear it nearly splinter, and the lock shuddered. Two more firm strikes and the door flew open. The lock fell to her feet, clattering on the floor. Bending over, Alistair dug into the front pocket of the man, lifting his foot so he didn't step in the pool of blood where his head had once been Eerie. He withdrew a key, holding it into the air.

"Ow," Isobel groaned, rubbing her shoulder. She looked into the room. It was humble, as were most accommodations in the city not owned by nobility. A bed, a fireplace, a bookshelf, and… a body? "Alistair," she called to him as she moved into the room to inspect the corpse. It was Genitivi's assistant. "Come and look at this." Waving her hand in front of her nose, Isobel nearly gagged at the stench. It smelled like death, yet it was a hundred times more potent than anything she'd smelled since Redcliffe. "He was possessed."

"You think we'd be able to recognize possession by now," Alistair muttered, bending beside the body to pick up the book at his side. After reading the passage marked with a bookmark, he looked up at her. "Do you still have the map?" Isobel nodded. "It's a town called Haven. Genitivi was almost positive the Urn is there."

"Why do I have a feeling things are only going to get more difficult as we go on?" she asked him. There was an element of exhaustion in her voice, both physical and emotional. It was almost a whine. He watched as she began to pace the room, map clenched unceremoniously in her hand. "Possessions and demons and bloody… possessed demons! Andraste's piss pot, I feel like I'm going _insane_!"

Shutting the book and standing, Alistair crossed the room and grasped Isobel by her shoulders. "Better insane than possessed, yeah?" The hopeful lilt in his voice lessened the frown that furrowed her brows.

All of the stress was wearing on her. She was scarcely twenty-one years old, and having been raised within the walls of Castle Cousland, she wasn't exactly bred for this sort of thing. While she could fight with the best of trained soldiers, she'd only ever dueled her brother and Ser Gilmore. And she'd only ever _practiced_. This business of shedding blood and cutting down men - or women or demons or darkspawn - was nothing like she'd imagined, not that she'd ever hoped to do such a thing.

Then there was being a Grey Warden. There was the taint and the archdemon and any number of things she'd readily assumed was legend or a part of history. She didn't want to be here, but there was no turning back. Nothing she did would rewind the events of the past few weeks. There was no alternative besides desertion or death. Both options were lackluster at best.

Isobel looked up at him. She tried to shift out of his hands, but he held her there in that spot as tight as he could. "I need something to drink." She sighed. "Now."

"Told you living across from a tavern was handy."

--

The Gnawed Noble tavern was a warm establishment in both temperature and atmosphere. Once Alistair and Isobel left Brother Genitivi's home and entered the tavern, they both felt a great weight lifted from their shoulders. For a few hours, they could sit and converse again as they had on their way to Denerim. Hopefully this short stay would ease Isobel's anxiety at her situation, and Alistair knew that he, too, could use a drink.

After a few recommendations from the bartender, Isobel and Alistair settled down across from each other at one of the tables. Despite the hour, the tavern was remarkably empty save for a few soldiers and those working for the night. Alistair looked around as Isobel took a long drink from her flagon. Tilting it back, she continued to drink, and Alistair's eyes widened as she gulped down at least one third of the thing.

Setting it down on the table in front of her, Isobel coughed, wiping at her mouth with her sleeve.

"You wouldn't happen to be half-dwarf, would you?" Alistair asked, eyebrow nearly shot into his hairline.

Isobel snorted, "What's that supposed to mean?" She looked down to her ale, giving a noncommittal shrug. "I was thirsty. I told you I needed a drink. This," she pointed towards the pint, "is a drink."

"Well, not _anymore_," he laughed, taking a purposefully dainty sip from his own.

Try as she might, Isobel couldn't keep herself from beaming at him. The man was ridiculous; utterly ridiculous. He reminded her of Fergus. Such a comparison nearly pierced her heart, and she took another hearty swig in an attempt to forget it. Soon enough, after nearly five empty flagons were removed from their table between the two of them, she did forget. And by that time, she wasn't feeling under such pressure anymore, either.

Instead, she tossed her head back and laughed at a mimic of Godfrey and Arryn's blossoming love affair. "Oh, Godfrey," Alistair cooed, his hand pressed to his chest and his eyelashes fluttering. "You are just so big. And strong. And handsome."

Isobel clutched at her stomach as she nearly doubled over, her fist pounding on the table. "Stop! Please, I beg you, stop!"

Of course, the man either didn't hear her or was intent on finishing his charade. "Oh, Arryn," he continued, his voice little more than a grumbling growl. "You are so petite. Your ears are so pointy. Let me kiss them." He succumbed to laughter of his own, coughing and giggling as only a heavily intoxicated man could.

Wiping at her eyes, Isobel finally calmed. "That," she panted, a lopsided grin taking up residence on her lips. "was _really good_. You do many impressions?" It took her a second for an idea to formulate in her head. While it was slow coming, her brains muddied with drink, she perked up as it hit her. "You should do me!"

Alistair went white. "W-what?" he stammered. "Noooo. Nah. I don't think that'd be wise. I… I can do Cailan?"

"Ooh." Distracted from her own wishes, she leaned forward on her chair. "This is gunna be _good_." Flapping her hands at him as if to tell him to continue, she grinned. This was the most fun she'd had in weeks. While her parents frowned upon excessive drinking, she'd often followed her brother out with his friends. Always eager to make an example of his little sister, Fergus shared the ale until she could hardly stand up straight. It was this that taught her to hold her drink. Alistair clearly never had such an influence.

After clearing his throat, Alistair straightened himself up. Isobel watched as he nearly transformed into the good king right before her very eyes. "Hello, fair maiden," he began, "I see you carry a sword. I, too, carry a sword."

Isobel's hand flew to her mouth to keep herself from laughing aloud. She felt terrible for being so amused at Cailan's expense.

"I am the king of all Ferelden. I seek glory. But, please, do not get blood on my armor. It is too shiny for that mess. Some think of me as a pampered brat and a shadow of my father, Maker save him. They're not far off." The impression stopped suddenly as Isobel's laughter quieted. He'd gone too far. He knew it was going to happen. Put too much drink in that body of his and he was going to say _something_ someone didn't like. Most of the time he didn't even have to be drunk in order to offend someone.

Alistair's mind reeled, half from drink and half from his own loose lips. He could feel the truth dancing along the inside of his mouth, on his tongue, and it tasted bitter. No matter how hard he tried to hold it back, it was impossible. So instead of explaining himself, he stood up, nearly knocking the table over in Isobel's direction in the process. Stammering his apology, he went to the bartender. Not for a drink, but to acquire a room for the night.

All the while, Isobel stared down at her nearly empty pint, her stomach churning. She was a fool for drinking so much. Their situation was too precarious to be indulging in such a way. Looking up from the ale, she focused in on Alistair, listening as he insisted they should have two rooms despite the bartender insisting the other was already rented for the night.

Alistair returned, stumbling only slightly, with a key to the room they were to share. "I tried to get two of 'em, but…"

"I heard," Isobel interrupted him. She lifted her fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Tomorrow is going to be a miserable day, Alistair." A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth all the same. "Why did you let me drink so much?"

"I doubt the Maker Himself couldn't have stopped you from drinking," he chuckled, though his own head pounded. "It's getting late."

Isobel stood from the table with care, and the two of them made their way towards their room for the night. They found a single bed, as was expected, a small, flickering fire, a rug, and a chair. It wasn't exactly palatial, but the bed looked like the most comfortable thing she'd seen in weeks. Moving over to it, Isobel collapsed onto one side, grunting at the impact. The room sloshed around her, and she buried her face in the pillow in an attempt to stop it.

Before long, while Alistair removed his armor near the fire, he heard a soft snoring coming from her direction. "Guess I'll be sleeping here, then," he murmured, appraising the chair he stood in front of. His eyes went to Isobel and he smiled to himself. The girl could hold her drink, but when she was tired, nothing would stop her from falling dead asleep in minutes.

While his hands were clumsy, he hurriedly unfolded the coarse blanket on the edge of the bed and threw it over her. He didn't need it, not so near to the flames. Funnily enough, it didn't bother Alistair in the least that the young woman who was all but leading them was so easy to take care of.

--

Back at the campsite, most of the men had all filtered off into their tents by now. Some were even snoring. Most were kept up by their individual thoughts. While their stories since Ostagar were the same, they were all different in very essential ways. Some were married, others were unattached. Some had children. Some had a home to go to, others had lost everything. Some could hardly sleep with the anticipation of what was on the horizon. One of those men was Cailan.

He was sitting beside the fire, a much more pristine leather bound journal opened on his lap. With the addition of a small vial of ink and a pen, it was clear to any bystanders that Cailan had begun keeping his own journal. Little did they know, he'd been keeping one since the battles preceding Ostagar.

Already he was nearly halfway through with filling the pages.

Tonight was the first night he'd gathered the courage to scribble his self-proclaimed "inane" thoughts in front of his men. He blew on the quickly drying ink as he wrote feverishly, dusting his hair out of his eyes and narrowing them in thought.

_I find myself surrounded by brothers. Men similar to myself in ways I'd never have imagined in my earlier years. _

Looking up from his journal, he watched as those men moved around the camp. They gathered more wood for the fire, kept watch, conversed among themselves. He could almost see the camaraderie growing between them all. While he was not directly included in any of these actions, he felt a warmth unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

_Still, I find there is a piece missing tonight. As I stated earlier in this entry, the two Grey Wardens have departed for Denerim to find Brother Genitivi. The camp was attacked by a troop of bandits numbering eleven this afternoon, and I found myself searching for the sound of Isobel's sword. As our days together grow in number, I become more and more accustomed to having her fight by my side. She transforms when engaged in combat. While she is almost meek in our everyday conversations, she becomes something completely different in the flush of battle. It's_

Cailan lifted his pen to his mouth, biting on the end of it as he thought of a word. Everything seemed unfit for the manner he wished to convey her - too coarse.

_inspiring. Even when we are not fighting at each others side, I cannot stop thinking about her. The news of Anora's disappearance wounded me, but this feels unlike the attachment I felt to her. It feels like custom made, fur-lined gloves. It feels like a warm place to sleep after weeks of slumbering on the ground._

Smiling softly to himself, Cailan dipped his pen into the bottle of ink, finishing his entry with a flourish.

_It feels like sunshine against my skin after a long darkness._

* * *

_  
_**A/N:** You are all just TOO kind, I swear!I have to admit that I'm guilty of siding with Alistair for the past few chapters, but I promise that Cailan will come through! At least, I sure hope he does, as that's sort of the point after all. I think I may end up sitting at home, writing for you guys, instead of going out for my birthday on Wednesday! ;)


	10. Chapter 10

She was dangerous.

Considering her station and occupation, the fact that even grown men shifted out of her way in the streets was no surprise. Whether this was out of alarm or awe, it was not obvious. She hardly seemed to notice the way the crowd parted as she made her way in the direction of Teyrn Loghain's estate. They all turned to look after her, watching the subtle sway of her hips and the rigid line of her shoulders, the midday sun reflecting on her dark hair and blanching her already pale skin of color.

When she finally reached the tall structure, she passed into it without a shared word with any of the guards. Her unflappable confidence gave the impression of purpose, and had they not been warned of her approach, they might have let her pass regardless. She was conducted into Loghain's study by a rather nervous servant, who chatted with her amiably at first. He became silent when he garnered no reply from the woman save for a chilly nod.

The servant knocked on the door twice before calling out, "The Orlesian has arrived, my lord." Looking towards the woman, he, as many men before, appraised her for what she was - a lovely weapon. His forced politeness to the woman betrayed the true feelings beneath his welcoming smile. It was his age that made him feel so. He'd lived through the Orlesian occupation, as had Loghain. The alliance in itself was confusing enough to corner him into obedience.

"Enter."

Opening the door for her, the man watched as she did as she was told, leaving him with nothing more than the spice of her perfume. While he wasn't one to mutter and complain about his employers choices, he shut the door behind her and went about his business, mumbling his criticisms to no one in particular.

The Orlesian made her way into the study to find Loghain with his back to her, staring out of one of the room's many tall windows down at the city. "I trust your journey was eventful," he said. His voice was quiet and lined with ice. The statement begged no answer, and she did not give him one. The road was paved with darkspawn from Val Royeaux to Denerim, many killed by her own blade. Placing herself down soundlessly in a chair opposite Loghain, she crossed one long leg over the other, the blue silk of her dress pooling in her lap.

She didn't intend on initiating conversation. She was called forth from her native Orlais for work, not banter with the Teyrn. He didn't seem the sort to engage in playfully barbed retorts as it was. While she didn't make a habit out of sarcasm, on some men it was attractive.

Loghain turned to her, his brow furrowed and his arms crossed over his chest. He carved an imposing figure, but she was not phased. She'd brought men like him down more than once before. After nearly a decade, his sort bored her. Still, she was not the sort to attack unless provoked, even if it would be sporting surrounded by a troop of his own guards. As she sized him up, he did the same to her. While she was slight through the waist, she was hearty. And extremely feminine to have such a reputation.

"I trust you avoided them well enough on your journey into Denerim," Loghain sniffed, "They aren't exactly well hidden." Of course, Cailan wouldn't be the kind of man to disguise his company, would he? Pompous fool. Even his father had more sense when they'd first met. Upon hearing that Maric's son had survived the battle at Ostagar, Loghain retracted to his study and plans were built up from the ground. His former strategy was dashed on the rocks with the return of the golden king. What would the people believe? Who would they believe?

The Orlesian nodded. "Your letter said nothing of their numbers," she replied. "I expected a legion and was met with a joke." An unfunny one, at that. The darkspawn must have utterly destroyed their forces, something she'd both heard and expected.

"While their numbers are few, they have the last of the Grey Wardens with them, dragging Cailan along by his collar no doubt."

The woman lifted a brow. "I saw no Grey Wardens. Soldiers, yes, and a mage, but no Grey Wardens." She could tell a Grey Warden from a regular foot soldier. Having come into contact with many of them in her years, there was an obvious difference between them, a difference she could catch on to no matter how far away from the camp she was.

Loghain's eyes flashed with an emotion she could not recognize immediately. It was gone before she knew it, leaving only clear blue behind.

"That changes things," he murmured to himself, lifting a hand to stroke his chin. She observed him with level eyes. Watching a man think was an altogether interesting experience, especially considering that most didn't bother with it at all. But Loghain was different. He was a thinker. She could tell from the lines between his brows that he was a thinker. "You will have to set out earlier than I expected. There is not time for you to rest."

"There is no need for rest," she replied, standing from the chair. Her sudden movement would've startled a lesser man so absorbed in his thoughts, but Loghain remained collected.

He nodded to her and turned to his desk, shifting a few leafs of parchment before he found the note he'd written late into the night. Moving over to the fire, he tossed it into the flames, watching as it popped and sizzled and existed no more. Turning back to the Orlesian, he beckoned her forward, gesturing to the map lying across his desk. "You will not be playing the damsel this time."

She gave him a tight smile, stepping forward to look at the map. "And I am glad for it."

* * *

  
**A/N:** Fear not, this is not meant to be a full chapter! Haha. An introduction of a new character, yes, but not a full chapter. Expect one of those later tonight. I figured it would be best to let her have her own chapter, so she wouldn't get lost in the other scenes. Enjoy!


	11. Chapter 11

Isobel woke with a low groan. She ached all over, from her head to her feet. All of the constant moving and fighting and moving had finally caught up with her, it seemed. Overindulgence merely ushered it along. Her first move was to kick the thick blanket off of herself, her skin slippery with ale-scented perspiration. The movement rolled her stomach, and she was hit with a wave of nausea so strong it sprung goosebumps on her arms. Clutching at her head, she struggled to sit up as slowly as possible, blinking her bleary eyes in an attempt to look around the room.

It was empty. Where was Alistair? Peeling the blanket from her legs, she pulled it aside. As her stomach settled, she brought herself into an upright position and ran her hands through her hair. She felt like death itself. Her predictions the previous night had been all too true.

Sliding her legs off of the bed, Isobel took a deep breath, her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Thankfully she remembered where she was. She remembered the events of the previous night clearly enough, though some of his words were muddied up beyond belief. She didn't remember much after they made their way back into the room, however, which worried her for a brief moment. But then she realized who she'd been accompanied by. He wasn't the sort of man to take advantage.

She breathed a sigh of relief, but she still hadn't garnered the strength to stand up without falling. Her ankles felt like jelly; she knew her knees were probably not much stronger. There was no way they'd be able to leave today. They'd be stuck in Denerim for another night, and Cailan wouldn't be very pleased with them. Not at all. She hoped he wouldn't send out a search party. That would spoil things considerably. She was sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, silently going over her thoughts despite the dull ache in her head.

A short time later, she heard the door cracking open. Glancing up from the floor, she saw Alistair peeking in. When he saw that she was awake, he took a long step in and shut the door behind him. In his hand was a plate, and his cheek was puffed out.

Before he was able to speak, he chewed on whatever he was eating, a grin curling at his lips when he finished. "A midday meal?" he asked, offering her the thick pewter plate. On the plate was a hunk of cheese, some bread, and a bit of meat. Isobel groaned inwardly and shook her head, suddenly nauseated all over again. Alistair's smile faltered. "More worse for wear than you expected?"

"Mm," she nodded, an arm curling around her middle. "You're… chipper this morning."

Alistair chuckled. "I didn't drink as much as you did," he reminded her, setting himself down in the chair where he'd slept. "And it's not morning. Nowhere near morning, actually." He paused, looking her over. "I figured you weren't going to be feeling well enough to make the trip back to camp," he continued, tearing off a bit of bread and scooping up a small bit of the creamy cheese. This was heaven for the Grey Warden. A comfy chair, a bit of cheese, and no repercussions from any merrymaking. "We have this room for another night."

"Thoughtful," was the only response she could muster. There would be no standing up, not yet. Instead, she rested her head gingerly back down on the pillow and curled back up. "That was a really bad idea."

Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Alistair rocked it with his foot, eyes gone to the ceiling. It was a decent establishment, very homey. "Yes," he laughed, "It was a bad idea. Fun while it lasted, though, of what I can remember." In truth, he didn't remember much of the previous night. He could recall brief flashes. His impression of Arryn, Isobel's almost belly busting laughter, mentioning Cailan, the end of said laughter.

Before he knew it, he could hear Isobel's even breathing. Even over the creaking of the rocking chair, he could hear each breath she took and released. Looking over to her, he smiled to himself before taking another hearty bite out of the loaf.

It was easy for Alistair to amuse himself while Isobel slept. After finishing off his food, he left her to rest, venturing out into the market to pass the time. The men and women who staffed the shops and stalls were implicitly kind to him, which startled him at first, but he soon grew to enjoy it. Before he knew it, an hour had drawn past and he was carrying more things than he knew what to do with. Cradling his purchases, all acquired at a discount, Alistair made his way back to the tavern, trying his best to avoid running into any doors or people.

When he arrived back at the room, he found Isobel seated on the bed with her back against the simply carved headboard. The fact that she was eating was the first thing he noticed. She was sipping what he assumed was soup out of a bowl. It smelled wonderful, and Alistair felt his stomach grumble. "Feeling any better?" he asked, wandering over to the bed and placing everything in a heap at the foot of it.

Isobel glanced at the pile of merchandise with a curious gleam in her eye. "I didn't know you were carrying around a small goldmine in your pack," she murmured, taking another long slurp of soup before setting the bowl aside, her attention grasped by what he'd bought. The first thing that caught her eye was a ribbon, and she stifled a laugh. "I can't believe you actually bought him a ribbon." She lifted it up out of the small pile. It was soft and made of a rich emerald green fabric. Weaving it through her fingers, she looked up at Alistair, whose cheeks had flushed a deep shade of pink.

"That's, uh, not for Cailan," he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I got that for you. Your hair gets into your eyes a lot. Not that I've been watching you." He laughed again, slightly louder, to mask his own embarrassment. "It matches your eyes," he offered, his shoulder lifting in a nonchalant gesture. You idiot, that's even worse.

Instead of being offended or disturbed, he watched as a smile bloomed on her lips. "You really are thoughtful." In a few short movements, she'd tied her hair back with the ribbon, and she was still smiling despite her persistent headache. Alistair's eyes dropped to her neck. Her skin still gleamed from the warmth of the room. Gulping, he turned to his wares instead.

"There was an apothecary who offered to sell me a recipe or two for a good price," he said as he fingered the small wad of parchment. "All of the other things are what's needed around the camp. I've heard the men often complaining of the things they miss having. They're not used to being so poorly supplied. I only wish they could've come into Denerim. They could carry much more than I can."

"Don't worry about that," Isobel assured him. Picking up a tiny vial, she rolled it around in the palm of her hand. It was filled with a thin, nearly clear liquid. Removing the stopper, she brought it to her nose and took a whiff. Alistair lifted a hand to stop her, but the gesture did not register in time. Her senses were instantly overwhelmed. Clearly, she'd taken too hefty a smell. The scent lingered even after she'd replaced the stopper. As it faded, the smell became more tolerable. It faded into something both sweet and spicy, like an exotic landscape she couldn't quite place. It certainly wasn't Ferelden-made. "What is that?"

Alistair gave a nervous laugh. "You don't like it?"

"It's not that. It's… strong, that's for sure, but it's nice." Placing the vial delicately back into its place, she looked up at him. "But what is it? I can't place the smell."

"It's Antivan," he said quietly, plucking up the vial and pocketing it. "One of the few scents they had. Cheaper than the Orlesian ones, and less overpowering if used sparingly." He looked down at his hands, "And I don't really enjoy smelling like a flower."

Isobel gave a snort of laughter. "It's perfume!"

Alistair's cheeks darkened another shade. "Yes, well. It's for men, I assure you. That's what the woman keeping the stall told me." He didn't much care for being teased, even if it was by her. It made him self-conscious and extremely uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet. "Have you eaten enough? You were asleep for nearly all day. Surely a bowl of soup isn't enough…"

She bit back a smile. He was changing the subject. Instead of pushing forward even more, Isobel took the bait. "Actually, I'd really like something else. Anything else." Her stomach growled at the thought of putting more food into it, and she rubbed it absently. "I've been so hungry lately."

"That's the taint," he replied simply. "We all become ravenous beasts and would take down a bear if we got desperate and hungry enough. With our bare hands." The two shared a smile before he left the room to find her something to eat. She could still smell the Antivan scent, and as she sat there, breathing it in, she grew to like it.

When he returned with a similar plate he'd offered her earlier, she took it without hesitation. Nodding to the edge of the bed, she took a large bite out of the bread, shutting her eyes at the taste. She loved bread.

Alistair moved all of his things to the other side of the bed before sitting down. "Do you think Cailan's going to react badly when he finds out why we haven't returned in a day as was planned?" she asked, chewing thoughtfully. "Surely he knows we might've been caught up. Denerim isn't the most lawful of places." She passed her thumb along her lip to dust off any crumbs. "That's not likely to keep him from sending out a search party, is it?"

"If we leave very early tomorrow, we should be able to intercept any search party he sends," Alistair murmured, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. "I don't see why he would, though. The two of us would fare better than a dozen. Crowded though Denerim may be, Loghain no doubt has eyes scattered everywhere. It's amazing how quickly Cailan is to doubt me." He cleared his throat. "Us. Doubt us."

Isobel arched an eyebrow. While she wasn't usually one to pry, there was a story here. She knew there was. Alistair's reactions to mere mentions of Cailan were odd, as well as his reactions to the king himself. But when they were along, he was particularly harsh, and Isobel could not see why. "I don't mean to impose," she began slowly, and her tone caused Alistair's stomach to tighten, "but I have a question. It's about you and Cailan."

Alistair's lips thinned into a crooked line. "What about Cailan and me? Ask anything. I shouldn't hold anything back from you." He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to open up old wounds or throw salt into new ones. He didn't see any way around it short of lying, and he didn't want to lie to her. He'd confess a painful truth one thousand times before lying to her.

"What's going on between you two? It seems one-sided, but I assumed there was something wrong. I know I shouldn't assume things, but I couldn't help but notice." As she settled in to hear Alistair's story, she finished off the small chunk of cheese on her plate and began picking at the sausage. What he said, though, stopped her chewing entirely.

"We're… brothers," Alistair sighed, "Half-brothers. I'm almost completely sure he doesn't know about me." Isobel's lips parted in shock. She'd expected something along the lines of jealousy or former friendship dashed to little more than indifference. Nothing like that. Alistair saw her expression and begrudgingly continued. "Maric was my father. Obviously the royal bastard isn't acknowledged, and I have spent most of my life trying to accept that." He took a deep breath and released it in a heavy sigh. "I… I don't really want to talk about it. Or Cailan. Can we talk about you instead?"

Isobel tilted her head to the side. "Are you sure?" she asked, her hand settling on Alistair's wrist. It felt like the only comfort she could give him.

While it was a small action, he felt a warmth spread up from her fingers and fill him. He nodded. "I'd much rather hear about your parents, about your childhood and your brother." She'd spoken with such levity of them before that he expected the same now. He thought he'd be regaled with tales of her elder brother playing tricks on her or her mother teaching her how to swing a sword and be a gentlewoman in the same afternoon, about sticking up for the other children when they were harassed by the city bullies, absolutely anything to take his mind off of his own situation.

That was not what he received. Instead, she went on to tell him about her final night in Highever. His dark mood had rubbed off on her, and she finally felt it was time to vocalize that sliver of memory that was a constant source of imbalance. She did not cry a single tear as she told him about finding Fergus's wife and child slain and about Ser Gilmore. Even as she recounted her final conversation with her parents, her expression remained stony.

"And then I told them that I loved them," she finished, her voice gone quiet. "They said they loved me, too. I left not long after that. Duncan had to drag me most of the way. I could hardly feel my feet. I couldn't feel anything."

Alistair's eyes fell to his lap only to find that her hand was still on his wrist. Turning his palm over, he laced his fingers with hers, bringing her hand up to his lips. Her eyes welled at this, and she wiped the tears away before she could shed them. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from," she gushed, punctuating her apology with a nervous laugh. "I've just waited so long to tell that to someone. When you asked about my family, it just came flooding out."

"I can't believe you've been able to keep it in for so long. It's been more than a month, hasn't it?" She nodded, her features gone placid again. He looked at her with an expression that was easily interpreted as awe. "And you've been fighting all this time. You are something else, Isobel."

All he could remember was that day in Castle Redcliffe, finding her in the hallway, her face red and distorted as she finally let herself be overcome. The strong urge to comfort her returned at the memory, and he reached forward to curl an arm around her waist and guide her forward. She accepted his embrace without a moment's hesitance. Her head came to rest against his chest, her own arms curled snuggly around his waist. He was so warm, and he smelled faintly of that Antivan perfume. With each breath she took, she grew to like the scent even more.

Alistair rested his chin on the top of her head, his arms wrapped around her as she lingered. A simple hug wore on, but he did not mind it. She was not a light woman; it was the heaviness in her limbs that kept him holding onto her. There was no fear of breaking her.

His heart was tight in his chest, and he feared she would be able to hear it race. If she did, she said nothing of it.


	12. Chapter 12

In the wee hours of the morning, Godfrey left his tent to find Cailan already awake. The king was pacing, his every movement wrought with anxiety. Still, he was a beacon in his shining golden armor, which glittered under the early morning sun that filtered in through the thick canopy of trees. With every step he took, he seemed to move closer and closer towards the edge of the camp. He was tired of waiting. They all were. But Alistair and Isobel hadn't returned yet from Denerim. Leaving without them was unheard of.

Rubbing his bleary eyes, Godfrey went to the king. Cailan's eyes shot from the ground in front of his feet in the direction of the sound of someone approaching. At the sight of his most trusted soldier, he smiled faintly. "Good morning, Godfrey," he said, "Sleep found you well enough, I hope?"

"Aye," Godfrey nodded, "And you?"

"I fear not," Cailan chuckled, looking away from the man and into the forest. "I have been having these dreadful nightmares. I suppose that's not uncommon." He'd often heard men crying out through the night, a response garnered from only the most terrible frights. He, too, often found himself sweaty and shaking when he stirred from his fitful sleep.

The two men stood there for a long moment. The camp was quiet for the most part, save for a few men snoring here and there and the sound of those keeping watch. They hadn't stayed in one place for so long in what felt like an eternity. Staying this long was dangerous. They all knew it.

Godfrey ran a nervous hand through his hair. "So… what are we going to do, your Majesty?"

His question took Cailan unaware. Blinking, he looked to Godfrey, an almost lost expression on his face. "About what?" he asked, his voice distant, "Oh. About Alistair?"

"And Isobel, your Majesty."

_Yes, and Isobel_, Cailan thought, releasing a long held breath with a sigh. "We wait, ser. We wait and see what news they bring to us." That was his only plan. After so many hours of deliberation, that was the only thing he could come up with. They were to wait. They could do little else. With their thin numbers, Cailan could not offer to send anyone out to look for them. What would happen if their camp was attacked while the others were gone? The Grey Wardens would return to see their company slaughtered.

Godfrey nodded to him. For a moment, Cailan nearly believed that Godfrey agreed with his plan. No one actually agreed with him. They accepted his plans because he was king, not because they were any good. For once in his life, he found himself desiring the company of someone who was unafraid to speak their mind. He'd have bet his shield and all the gold in his pack that Isobel would've spoken up at the delivery of his pathetic excuse for plans.

Sharing a small smile with the soldier, Cailan turned and left him to his business. His tent beckoned to him, offering solace from the somber eyes of his men. He hated this as much as they did if not more. No one understood how badly he wanted to be out there with Alistair and Isobel. He wanted to experience _everything_. He didn't want to be expected to walk in at the last moment to collect the glory, contrary to popular belief. The thrill of battle, the intensity that came with bargaining and persuasion - he wanted that, as well. Sitting out in the forest in his tent was the farthest thing from his dreams as a child.

For many hours, Cailan remained in his tent, pouring over his father's accounts of the battles he faced against the Orlesians. Every mention of Loghain lifted the man above even the Maker himself. It made Cailan sick to know his father loved that man so, the man who'd betrayed him and left him for dead. This was not the Loghain his father knew.

It was nearly midday when Cailan heard noises coming from outside. They were human, he knew that much, and they sounded oddly like… whistling? Furrowing his brow, Cailan shut his father's journal and replaced it to its rightful spot below his pillow. When he lifted the flap of his tent and emerged, he saw two men approaching. But it wasn't just two men. They were half-dragging someone with them. From the length of this someone's hair and skirt, he could tell immediately that it was a woman. And by the way she was thrashing about, he could tell that she wasn't happy with the turn of events.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, his voice uncommonly sharp. "We do not take prisoners. You both know that."

The soldier stopped in their tracks, and the woman calmed. When she lifted her eyes from the ground, Cailan was rendered speechless. He'd seen many great beauties in his life. His wife, Anora, was one of them. But this woman… Clearing his throat, he narrowed his eyes at her. Her unspoken response was a subtle sneer. "Who are you?"

"My name is Chella," was her swift reply. Her accent was clearly Orlesian.

"You're far from home," the king mused. "What are you doing so far from Orlais?"

She looked to the men holding either of her arms. Her glare was not veiled. "I would appreciate it if you would first give your guards an order to release me." She glanced back towards Cailan, making a show of the fact that she could hardly move her arm in the men's tight grasp. "Then I will answer your questions."

Cailan lifted a hand, waving both of the guards off of her. They released her wrists without a word of objection, but they did not leave her side. Most men did not trust her kind. It was wise.

The woman yanked her hands away from them, drawing herself up into a more comfortable stance. He could tell by the way she stood that she was a trained fighter. For a reason unbeknownst to him, this did not frighten him. "I was in the forest, hunting, when your _men_ thought it best to arrest me," she spat, glaring at them again. "They were not gentle, but I am not surprised. You Fereldens are as coarse as anything."

"You are speaking to the king of Ferelden, wench," one of the guards growled. "Show some bloody respect."

Chella's blue eyes widened, her cheeks darkening. "I apologize, your Majesty," she said quickly, bending at the waist in a bow. Cailan's eyes trailed down her neck to her more than ample bosom, lingering along the curve for much longer than was proper. "I did not realize… Teryn Loghain claims that you do not live. Many, myself included, believed him."

Cailan averted his gaze, looking to the Orlesian's eyes instead. "I figured as much," he said softly. "Is there much talk of what happened at Ostagar in Denerim?" Curiosity burned within him. If Loghain had already declared him dead, what else had the bastard heralded to his people? His worry was quenched for the moment, replaced by a boiling anger that he hadn't felt in quite some time. "I trust none of it is the truth, as I am more lively today than a month ago."

"I fear it is worse than you can imagine, your Majesty," Chella replied. She spoke in a slow, halting voice as if talking to a child. She was being careful with him, almost delicate, and he wasn't sure if he appreciated it or if it infuriated him. "I would not want to discuss such dire matters in front of your men." She looked to the guards, who only moved closer to her.

Could he trust her? She was some Orlesian rouge plucked out of the forest by his soldiers who offered information. With Alistair and Isobel still absent, the offer was tempting. Nodding to his men, they left the two of them alone, though they did so with obvious hesitation. "We can speak in my tent," he offered, turning to lift the flap leading into it. Chella nodded, accepting his offer without a word otherwise.

As she ducked into the tent, a wicked smile flashed across her lips.

This was going to be too easy.

Some hours later, shouts once again rang out through the camp. This time, Cailan was too preoccupied to even bother removing himself from the astonishing charms of the Orlesian. While their conversation began on a shaky, uncertain note, they were now conversing like old friends. He found that she was clever and warm, as well as a warrior in her own right. She had the scars to prove it, though she commented with a hearty laugh that he wasn't going to see them quite yet.

While the king proved elusive, the rest of his men gave joyous shouts as they watched the two Grey Warden's make their way closer to the camp. It was a great relief knowing that the two were finally back and they could all finally move on. Alistair gave Isobel a nudge with his arm, and she laughed, nudging him back a bit stronger. The men hooted and hollered when he rubbed his side.

They were met by Godfrey, who suppressed the urge to hug them both. Instead, he stood at the front of the group, a wide smile on his face. "Decide to take a day off, did you?" he chuckled. "Not that we mind fighting off a horde of darkspawn by ourselves."

A look of worry crossed Alistair's face, but it was gone when Isobel hurried her steps, knocking Godfrey firmly in the arm. "You can't let us have _all_ the fun, can you?" she joked, a healthy flush returning to her cheeks. After the sickly day before, she was feeling back to her old self. Except this time, there was an extra weight lifted from her shoulders. Before the soldier was able to prepare a comeback, she looked around, "Where's Cailan?"

"I, I'm not quite sure," Godfrey stammered, looking from Isobel to the men standing behind him.

"In his tent?" she asked, smiling. "We have news. Quite interesting news, I dare say." Turning towards Alistair, she tilted her head towards Cailan's tent. "Come on, you have to tell him, too."

Alistair gave a mock laborious sigh. "Very well."

They all but ignored the men looking from face to face. The ill at ease feeling that settled over the camp was all but lost on them as they made their way to the king's tent. Alistair was glad to see that Isobel's spirits had taken a turn for the better after another decent night's rest. She'd talked nearly as much as him on the way back to camp, which was a miracle in itself. She'd also promised not to bring up Alistair's paternity. Promised, vowed, swore - any number of oaths were pledged to the Grey Warden before he was satisfied.

When Isobel neared the tent, she heard something within that puzzled her. The giggle certainly hadn't come from Cailan. It was distinctly feminine, and she _knew_ that giggle. It was the laugh of a woman who was interested in enticing the man opposite her. She'd used that giggle on occasion to get her way, though those years were _long _passed.

Arching a curious brow, she lifted the flap and peered into the tent. Her sudden, unannounced entrance startled the woman, who uttered a soft gasp. Cailan, whose back was turned to her, looked over his shoulder, clearly perturbed at the intrusion. He was about to snap an order for the soldier to leave them be when he recognized Isobel's face. He brightened, and she felt the smallest bit reassured.

"Chella, please, let me introduce you to Isobel Cousland," Cailan began, gesturing her forward into the tent. She ducked into it, her eyes still locked on the strange woman. "Isobel," he smiled, "This is Chella Gralier."

Chella allowed herself a single, short-lived smile. "Cailan speaks very highly of you, Lady Cousland. While you are not exactly what I expected from his tales, I am not surprised with what I find." She laughed. "I'm almost certain you are used to your dear king weaving such complimentary tales." The way she spoke as if they were already close friends only made Isobel more wary of her, but she wasn't about to offend the king's new friend.

"What has he said of me?" Isobel asked, shooting Cailan an inquisitive look. She was too late. He'd already turned back to Chella and was smiling to himself as he watched her speak.

"He has praised your prowess with a weapon, which is obviously the truth," the girl began, an indefinable light in her eyes. Smug was the perfect word to describe her. From those big blue eyes to her upturned nose and full lips - smug. "But he also spoke volumes of how you were a great Ferelden beauty. He's utterly _besotted_." The matter-of-factness in her tone would have softened the blow to anyone dumb enough to be taken by this woman. Isobel was not one of them.

She gave a short bark of laughter. "A 'great Ferelden beauty,' huh?" she asked. Her words crackled in her throat as it went dry. "I find that hard to believe."

Chella did not have to agree with her. The smile she wore was enough of an answer. Isobel's lips parted to say something, but she felt a tug on her arm before she could vocalize any number of rude comments towards this _Chella_ woman. She turned to see Alistair with his hand on her elbow. "Well, your Majesty, should you wish to know the location of Brother Genitivi and the Urn, I will be outside."

She left the tent in a huff, slipping past Alistair only to have him hurry to catch up with her. Matching her long strides, he walked at her side for some time before speaking up. "Where are you going?" he asked, "Back to Denerim?"

"No," she replied, climbing through the thick brush she'd retreated through days before. The spindly branches caught on her hands, but she didn't bother with them. Nor did she stop to ask herself _why_ she was so angry. Why was she running away from the camp again? What had changed? When had the tables turned in such a way? Grimacing, she hopped over a fallen tree, her feet coming down onto the damp leaves with a dull crunch.

Alistair followed her in silence. He was curious to see where she was headed, but he was doubly curious as to why she was suddenly so upset. He could hardly see her through the thicket, but he soldiered on behind her, careful not to get a smack in the face by any rogue branches. When he finally hit the clearing, he saw why she'd chosen this destination.

She was crouched near the stream again, just as Cailan had found her before. This time she wasn't concerned with the rocks. Instead, she scooped up some of the frigid water in her hands and tossed it into her face. The chill numbed her flaming cheeks instantly, and she rubbed at her eyes with frenzied palms. Scrubbing the skin with her hands, she stood, turning to Alistair. For a moment, their eyes locked and she said nothing. This lasted all of a moment.

"We could have _died_," she began, her voice vehement despite a noticeable hitch. "We risked our bloody lives going into Denerim and for what!? So we could be _ignored_? Cast off for later while he keeps company with some strange woman _in his tent_!? She could be an assassin! Any minute now we could hear shouts from camp about how she slaughtered the king!"

Alistair opened his mouth, but she wasn't done. "We're trying to save his beloved uncle, and he's entertaining some… some… _tart_ of a woman!" She threw her hands into the air, whirling around so her back was to him. "I cannot believe she had the audacity to even say that to me! You don't blatantly insult someone with a _sword_, especially not when you're unarmed. Did you hear her? Did you hear what she said?"

"Yes, I heard," Alistair finally interjected. "I don't believe a word of it, though."

Turning back around to face him, Isobel's grimace deepened. "What do you mean by that?" Was he saying that he didn't believe Cailan would say something like that about her, or that she didn't deserve such praise?

This seemed to startle him, and he looked away, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. So this _was _all about Cailan. He'd seen the look on the king's face - all distant and dreamy. He knew that face just as well as Isobel knew Chella's. It was the face of a man utterly entranced in a way no magic could mimic. And whatever Isobel was feeling was jealousy and anger mixed into one. He suddenly felt self-conscious… and like a complete idiot. "I don't know. Don't mind me."

She hadn't meant to snap at him. Her expression softened. "I'm sorry, Alistair." She heaved a sigh, kicking the ground at her feet. She didn't know how to be gentle with a man's feelings. After years of trying - and failing - to wound her brother's monstrous pride, she never learned how to deal with someone more like Alistair. And she felt badly for it. "I'm just… shocked, is all." A bitter laugh passed her lips. "We're gone for two days, and he's already found another woman to fill the empty space I left."

"I don't think that's it. At all," Alistair pressed, moving forward to rest a comforting hand on Isobel's shoulder. "We don't know the full story. She could just be traveling through and had news for Cailan." Isobel tilted her head up to look into Alistair's face, and he tried his best to scrape together the remains of his pride to give her a supportive smile. "Plus, I doubt she could live up to anyone's expectations. You'd leave a very daunting hole."

"I just don't_ trust_ her, and it's pretty obvious that Cailan does." He really was a fool, wasn't he? If this was any confirmation, they were on an impossible mission, and they were only preparing themselves for defeat. "If she causes any trouble, I swear to the Maker, I'll…"

Alistair smirked. "Kill her and make it look like an accident?"

Isobel rolled her eyes at him. Another serious moment ruined by his sense of humor. She turned to make her way back to the came, smiling a small smile once she knew he couldn't see.

* * *

  
**A/N:** Hello, everyone! Once again, thank you a million times for the reviews! You have to trust me, though. As a lover of Alistair myself, I wouldn't dare put him through anything he can't handle, I promise! I have good and bad news, though. I finally got my hands on my own personal copy of the game last night... so... you know how that goes. I'll try to keep up with my updates!


	13. Chapter 13

The road to Haven was long and nearly unbearable for poor Isobel Cousland.

She often rode out in front of the party, if only to get away from Cailan and that simpering rogue he'd picked up, but she truly hated being alone. Sometimes she snatched Arryn up onto her horse and they rode together. The mage was slight and Isobel's mount hardly noticed the difference. With Arryn, she found some semblance of friendship, and they grew close, quickly. While she was cautious when speaking of the king to her new friend, once they settled into a trot and each others company, she found herself as loose lipped as anything.

Most of the time, she was sure she only spoke to herself. Arryn merely patted her on her back and murmured the occasional reply. Other times, the mage was just as zealous as Isobel. After only a few meetings with Chella, Arryn found the woman to be difficult to get along with, and she was only too eager to voice her complaints to Isobel, who invited the girl's free speech. She was mystified by the Grey Warden's wide array of colorful nicknames for the woman who kept pace beside Cailan's horse.

There were also times when Arryn spoke of Godfrey - the kind and gentle knight who'd been nothing but generous with her. Isobel insisted he had feelings for her, but the elf blushed and shook her head, quick to deny the possibility and eager to counter Isobel's protestations with her own. They were all about Alistair, about how nervous and pink he got when she was around, not that she'd noticed. They laughed together then, beside themselves on the topic of men.

On many days, they swore them off entirely, but Arryn was quick to change her mind.

Isobel swore that if she had a man such as Godfrey wriggling helpless in her palm, she'd change her mind as well. Arryn's smirking reply was that she already did. She just didn't realize it yet.

She brushed this off as nothing by idle fancy. Surely things would be more obvious if he were truly interested in her, right? They shared a tent, after all. They joked around, teased, and even sparred if the king decided he needed to rest. If there was something _there_, she would have been able to see it. That was her logic, and she considered it infallible.

When Arryn's declarations led in the direction of her fellow Grey Warden, all she could remember was that night by the stream all the way back near Denerim, and she hated herself for it. She'd never been that close to a man before. There were offers, surely, and she'd been tempted to accept them on occasion, but he was different. He was the king. Not only that, but his affections had been genuine. Or they had seemed so at the time.

Now he spent most of his time with the Orlesian, who willingly accepted those same affections he'd been all too willing to bestow upon her weeks before. While he was not the sort to openly exhibit any overtures, it was obvious in the way he looked at her that there was something there. Then again, it could've been Isobel's wild imagination.

As the weather seemed to alter around them, so did their moods. Chella withdrew from the main camp, which led to Cailan following after her, eager to please the woman who pleased him. Godfrey and Arryn spent more and more time together, leaving Isobel to ride on her own as they neared Haven. Alistair seemed less and less cheerful as the days wore on, which shocked everyone to their core.

Morale was at an all time low. The same could be said of their rations, which were so short they could hardly bear to feed the men more than twice a day. Nights were spent shivering in their tents, and they woke nearly frozen, lips and skin gone blue from the cold.

Alistair and Isobel often slid their bedrolls closer together in an attempt to share warmth. It was her idea, only a few days after the first frost, and Alistair flushed at the suggestion. "See? Warm already," she'd replied, patting him indelicately on his cheek. "Who needs a fire when they've got you?"

Nearly a month and a half after setting off from Denerim, the party arrived in Haven.

None of them knew the slightest about this village in the mountains. With the book containing Brother Genitivi's notes came the most miniscule of pointers - dress warmly and be wary of dragonlings. While Cailan voiced apprehension towards their mission for the first time since seeing his uncle, no doubt egged on by Chella, who swore the Urn was nothing more than a myth, they continued on their way.

When it came time for them to split up, there was a disagreement. The men were to set up camp at the bottom of the hill to wait until the king returned, and Isobel pulled Cailan aside for the first time since Denerim. He seemed shocked at first, but his surprise faded into a smile. His eyes fell to her pursed lips. She was not smiling. "Do you have any concerns?" he asked. The corner of his mouth twitched as he reconsidered his grin, but it ultimately remained.

"Who is coming with us to Haven?"

"You say that as if you already know you're going," Cailan teased. He could see her eyes harden before him, and he quickly amended his statement, holding up his palms to her. "I'm only kidding. I assumed it would be you and Alistair." He paused. Isobel felt her heart lurch forward. "And Chella."

Isobel took a step back, turning away from him. "What of Arryn? She's a healer. No one knows what we might run into up there." Of course he wanted to take Chella. Had she been any smaller, she might've been considered a lapdog, always running along at his heels, eager to please him. "You already have three swords. We need a mage."

"How do we even know we can _trust_ Arryn?" Cailan asked, his voice heavy. This argument felt hopeless. "She showed up out of nowhere. It was mighty convenient."

Her breath left her as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She wanted to turn around and slap him, to shake him and yell at him to open his eyes. If anyone's arrival was convenient, it was Chella's. "She's been traveling with us for months, Cailan. If it wasn't for her, we'd be dead three or four times over." She turned to him, her hands clenched into fists at her side. "How dare you question her fidelity when she's saved us time and time again?"

"How dare I?" Cailan replied. The pitch and volume of his voice rose, and he stepped forward, bringing himself so close to Isobel that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. She did so slowly. He could see an enraged glint in her eyes. "I am the _king_. This is an order."

"That title is as good as dirt now, Cailan," Isobel spat, her brows knitting together. She felt a rage bubbling within her, heating her limbs in a way they hadn't felt in weeks. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. "I'll listen to you. I'll take this order, but I want you to know that I do not approve. And you'll do good to know that most of your men share my ill will towards your Orlesian."

With that, she slipped past him and left him in silence.

Arryn was more than happy to be left back at the camp. She was tired, but she mustered enough energy to put together a few poultices for them to bring just in case. Alistair could tell that there was something wrong with Isobel, and his worries were confirmed when she blatantly ignored him as she slipped the poultices into her pack. The question as to _why_ she was so angry was answered not long after, when Cailan gave his orders.

Looking towards Isobel, Alistair saw her bite her lip, her entire body gone tense at the sound of Cailan calling out for Chella. The woman left her tent, placed right beside his own, and shared a smile with the king as she slipped her dagger into the sheath at her hip. "I am glad to be able to help," she laughed. "I was beginning to feel quite helpless." Her voice was the voice of a siren - deep and throaty and heavily accented - and her laugh sounded like bells. The men seated around the campfire would've surely been seduced if they hadn't been born with such deep prejudices against her people.

"Let's go," Isobel murmured to her fellow Grey Warden, lifting her pack and throwing it over her shoulder. "We do not want to keep His Majesty waiting." He words dripped with acid, and Alistair found himself amused by her outward show of contempt. No one else had the guts or gall to say such things about the king, and she was a woman.

The climb was a steep one. Isobel took the head of the group, and Chella took up the rear. It was the Grey Warden's idea, one the rouge readily accepted. A mutual dislike was clear as crystal, though Cailan seemed oblivious to it all. He had more important matters to worry about. Alistair tried his best to keep up with Isobel, but her strides were long and she was much lighter. On any other day, she would've slowed herself to let him keep up with her. The quiet was welcome, as was the small bit of solitude.

When she finally mounted the hill, she was met with the sight of a small village, even smaller than she'd imagined. Buildings were sturdy, but built out of poor materials. Everything was coated with snow, both fresh and lingering. And there was no one around, save for the man in heavy armor who stepped into her path before she was able to enter the village.

"What are you doing in Haven?" he asked. His voice was harsh and his accent only slightly familiar. He was smaller than Isobel, but the hard set line of his mouth and the hallows of his eyes were unsettling. "There is nothing for you here."

Isobel cleared her throat. "I have business here."

"No, you do not," the guard quickly interrupted her. "I would have been informed if someone was expecting a visitor." By now, Alistair was making his way up to stand beside her. He seemed confused, but he remained silent.

Glancing at Alistair, they shared a silent look of question. Unfriendly welcomes were not uncommon, and she suspected the villagers in Haven were less than decent. At least, that was the feeling she got from the gruff man standing before her. "Is there a Brother Genitivi here?"

The guard shrugged. "Who? Perhaps Revered Father Eirik will know of whom you speak. Unfortunately, he is ministering to the villagers at the moment, and cannot be disturbed."

"Very well," Isobel sighed, just as Cailan and Chella moved towards them. They were talking quietly amongst themselves. Isobel did her best to ignore them, to block out the whispered words and shimmer of laughter. "Excuse me."

As she was turning to leave, the guard stopped her. "You may trade for supplies at the shop if you wish. Then I suggest you and your companions leave."

Isobel nodded and left the man to his duty, though she doubted many people passed through. Certainly not enough to mount a guard at the gates. The fact that he stood there in the cold without moving troubled her, guarding the place as if there was actually something to guard besides townsfolk and shoddy houses.

"Should we even bother checking the shop?" Chella asked. Her voice was crisp and oddly chipper. "We have everything we need, do we not? The guard said the Father might know where Brother Genitivi is."

"He also said not to disturb the ministering," Isobel reminded her, jaw set and voice low as she looked from house to house. There was not a single soul outside. Considering the weather, she was not surprised, but she got a feeling in the pit of her stomach that told her this was often the case, no matter the weather. "Important pursuit or not, I refuse to barge in on someone's religious ceremony."

Chella scoffed. "What does it matter what you refuse to do? I didn't realize _you _were the king here." She turned to Cailan, "Should we not look for Brother Genitivi as soon as possible? Your uncle…"

"We have to find him, for Eamon's sake," Cailan near-shouted. Isobel rolled her eyes and accepted the burden of leading the group up another hill. This time, Alistair stuck by her side. He wanted to assure her that everyone back at camp hated Chella just as much as she did. There was a joke lying there somewhere, something about them all pitching her into an icy lake or off a cliff. But it was clear by her expression and her determined stride that she didn't want to talk. She wanted to get this over with. She wanted to hurt something.

Little did she know, the opportunity would soon present itself.

Pushing in through the doors of Haven's Chantry, the warmth of the room met her with the smell of burning lamps and oils and the sound of Revered Father Eirik's voice. He stood at the head of the crowd, his gray head bowed, hands clasped before him. His followers encircled him, their heads bowed as well, engulfed in contemplative silence. Two guards stood at either side of him. They were heavily armored and carrying large swords, an odd decoration for holy proceedings.

"We are blessed beyond measure," Father Eirik proclaimed, "We are chosen by the Holy, and Beloved to be Her guardians." He looked from face to face. Each of the townsfolk wore the same blank expression, bordering upon catatonic awe at his words. "The sacred duty is given to us alone. Rejoice, my brethren, and prepare your hearts to receive her."

The Father raised his hand, palm hovering over the ground, and extended his touch to each of their heads. "Lift up your voices and despair not…" His voice was lined with power. It filled every corner of the room, from the arched ceiling to the stone floor, from door to door, window to window. "For She will raise Her faithful servants to glory when Her -"

His sermon ceased as Isobel split the crowd without an ounce of grace. One of the townsfolk gave a gasp as she was thrust into the man standing beside her. Alistair shot her an apologetic look, but she'd already recovered, smoothing over the fabric of her dress and murmuring her dissent. "Ah… welcome," Father Eirik began. His brows creased and he folded his arms over his chest. For a priest, he was heavily built, and the air seemed to crackle around him with power. No wonder his followers were so eager to hang upon his every word. "I heard we had a visitor wandering about the village. I trust you've enjoyed your time in Haven so far?"

"It's quiet," Isobel replied plainly. She heard Cailan move up behind her, but she refused to give him the pleasure to speak. If anyone would get an answer, it was her. "Is there a man here by the name of Brother Genitivi?"

Father Eirik looked to the townsfolk, who stared at him, blinking and confused as to what they should do. "Today's service is over. I expect to see you all here on the morrow. Good day."

A man went to speak up, but he got a sharp look from the guard to Eirik's right. Instead, he turned and left with the rest of the men and women, understanding the silent threat in the soldier's eye. With all of them gone, Eirik did not relax in the slightest. If anything, he seemed even more imposing.

"What do you know of Genitivi?" There was a chill in his voice, one that spoke volumes. She was treading into dangerous territory. "Why do you seek him?"

"We seek the Urn of Sacred Ashes," Isobel heard from behind her. She turned to glare at the speaker only to find that Cailan had stepped up. He was tired of being treated like a child by her, and he was all too eager to lend a hand to the situation. A helpful one, he hoped. "To heal a dying man."

Father Eirik contemplated this for a moment. The party watched his features closely, waiting for some vague hint at a reaction. When his lips turned downward in a misshapen scowl, Cailan felt his heart shudder and then fall to his feet. All four guards drew their weapons with the hiss of metal along metal. Alistair and Isobel did the same, falling into a familiar stance. Chella unsheathed her twin daggers, her eyes glinting in the torchlight.

"We do not want visitors in Haven," Father Eirik stated imperiously. "They will change it, alter it for the worse." His tone was leaden as were his eyes, and they watched as he removed his staff from the strap across his back. There was a spark of blue lightening that ran along his arms, pooling in his palm as he steadied himself on his staff. "You die here."

Alistair was just quick enough to push Isobel out of the way when the burst of lightening left Father Eirik's hand. He felt a burst of fire on his shoulder, and he screamed in agony. His entire left arm went numb as the pain rushed to his fingers. Struggling to stand, he shrugged off his shield, tossing it to the side and lifting his sword to parry the blow of a guard's sword. He staggered a step backwards, grunting as he thrust the man's sword upwards and away from him.

Isobel was already on her feet, deflecting the blows of two men with sword and shield. "Alistair!" she called. Her fellow Grey Warden turned as he removed his sword from the belly of the guard. With a firm thrust of her boot to his chest, Isobel shoved him in Alistair's direction. The guard whirled around just in time to receive a blow to the face with the pommel of his sword.

On the opposite side of the room, Cailan was set on engaging the mage, ducking and diving as he avoided poorly aimed bursts of ice and fire. He wove around them as if he'd been doing this since he was a child. Golden hair whipping behind him, golden armor gleaming in the dim lighting of the Chantry - he was a vision.

Cailan ran forward, vaulting over the altar and landing on the stone floor right before Father Eirik. They regarded each other for a split second in time before Cailan felt a blow across his back from a guard's sword. He fell to his knees, all the air shot from his lungs, but he was not dead. The true victim was Eirik. The king's eyes widened as he felt a warm spray on the top of his head.

The priest gurgled, hands clasping in vain around the dagger lodged in his throat. Eirik staggered backwards a step before falling, boots slipping and sliding on the floor as he struggled to stand again. Cailan yanked the man towards him, his hand going to the blood slicked hilt. His fingers slipped at first, but his grip remained true as he removed the dagger and drove it into Father Eirik's chest.

Cailan turned in time to see Chella running towards them. She jumped into the air and onto the guard's back, pushing him, face down, into the altar. He hit it with a thud, but his struggles to remove the woman were futile. She gripped his helmet in her hands and twisted it sharply to the side. The final sound of the fight was a disturbing crack as the guard's neck was broken.

Isobel broke off into a run to get to Cailan. In her own desperation to fend off the guards, she'd forgotten all about the king, and her innards went cold when she saw him half-lying on the ground, covered in blood, his shaky hands holding a dagger that looked like Chella's. The bitch had stabbed him. That was her only thought as she skidded around the altar and fell to her knees in front of Cailan, tearing the dagger out of his hands and throwing it aside as if it burned her skin.

His shock only deepened at this. His eyes were wide, and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to explain what had happened.

Isobel was only able to look away from him when she saw Chella drop to her knee on his other side. Something within Isobel snapped at the expression of concern the Orlesian wore. Her hands went to the woman's shoulders and she shoved her backwards, away from the king. "Get away from him!" she roared, her face gone white with fury.

Cailan and Alistair watched in silence as Chella was thrown back against the wall. The impact would've broken something had she been delicate. Instead, she merely gasped before lunging at Isobel, throwing the Grey Warden onto her back. Alistair cringed when he heard Isobel's head strike the ground. They hit the stone floor in a heap of clashing armor, and Isobel choked for air as the Orlesian's hands went to her throat. "Don't you dare lay a hand on me!" she shouted, her fingers clamping down even harder. "I just saved your precious king!"

"Get off of her!" Cailan barked. His voice was louder than both of the women's and it echoed in the chamber. Chella let go of Isobel's throat at his bidding, and she quickly stood. The Warden gasped and coughed, but her eyes did not leave Chella's suddenly deadpan face. Alistair went to Isobel's side, his hands guiding her up into a standing position. Cailan helped himself, hissing an order for Chella to leave him be. His eyes went to Isobel, who stood in silence, her eyes shut, as Alistair ran a hand along the back of her head to see if she was bleeding. Still, her jaw was clenched and her lips pinched together in a frown. "I will allow no more of this," he growled, "We find Genitivi. We receive his guidance. Then we leave this place."

Chella nodded. "Yes, your Majesty."

Cailan gestured towards Father Eirik. "Search his body for anything he may carry."

While she did not enjoy stealing off of the bodies of holy men, the Orlesian's hands made quick work of dipping into the man's pockets. When they gave up nothing of value, she lifted a pendant from around his neck. Figuring it could be of use, she snatched it up, yanking it from him and pocketing it.

"No bleeding?" Isobel asked, glancing at Alistair over her shoulder. The pain was severe, but pride kept her from saying such with Chella in earshot. For all the woman would ever know, Isobel was immortal and felt no pain. She refused to show weakness, and the Orlesian clearly felt the same.

Alistair gave her a small smile, his hand resting absently on the back of her neck, beneath a thick veil of red hair. "No bleeding. You're going to have one hellacious bump, though. You might want to sleep on your face for a few days." He felt his body warm when she gave a quiet laugh. It hurt, seeing her run to Cailan like that. Her almost primitive reaction to Chella wasn't comforting, either, but her laugh smoothed all those sharp feelings over.

There was a doorway near the side of the large chamber, but it led to a wall of stones, much like the floor beneath their feet. Cailan pressed a hand to it, pushing all of his strength against the wall. It moved. He shoved into it again, this time attempting to move it to the side. It went willingly, dragging along the floor with a noise so loud it alerted the three.

Chella was the first to follow him into the room, trailed by Alistair and then Isobel. Everything was damp and cold, and the books in the shelves emitted a smell that assaulted the senses. There was a man lying on the floor, the only comfort between his body and the stones was a tattered, threadbare rug. When he heard Cailan approaching, he tried his best to sit up, groaning. "W-who are you?" he asked, terror gripping his every word. "They… they sent you to finish it?"

"I'm King Cailan Theirin, and I'm here to help you."

The man's eyes widened at the name. "Your Majesty!" he proclaimed, his voice shuddering in both joy and awe. His eyes fell to the floor, "You don't know how happy I am to see someone who isn't from this village. I -" His hand flew to his knee as he gave another pained groan. "The leg's… not doing so well, and I can't feel my foot."

Cailan turned to look at Isobel. She stepped forward, "I can bandage it for now. We have a mage who is adept at healing, but she is back at camp." Her words were harsh, as was the glare she directed at the king. Going to her knees beside the Brother, she removed a poultice from her pack and her expression softened. "We should go to her."

"I don't have _time_ to go anywhere else," he pressed. "The Urn is just up the mountain."

"The Urn!?" Cailan gasped, "It really is here?" Genitivi nodded. "We must get the ashes at once. My uncle, the arl, gets sicker by the day."

"The arl is sick? Will he live?"

"I… hope so."

Genitivi's mouth curled downward into a solemn frown. "The arl is a noble soul. The ashes will surely cure him." These words melted away the rough exterior of Cailan's worry. This man had studied the Urn for many years. If anyone knew the effects of the ashes, it was him. "Haven lies in the shadow of the mountain that holds the Urn. There is an old temple there, built to protect it. The door is always locked, but I know where the key is. Eirik wears a medallion that opens the temple door… I've seen what he does with it."

Chella fingered the pendant in her pocket. Slipping it out into her palm, she stepped forward, nudging Isobel to the side so the brother could see the object in her hand. "This medallion?"

"Yes, that's the key," Genitivi smiled wearily. After so many weeks of this, so much torture and pain; after so many years, so much research and condemnation - he would see the temple for himself. Finally. He was nearly overwhelmed, and Isobel saw tears well in his eyes. "Take me to the mountainside, and I will show you."


	14. Chapter 14

Brother Genitivi proved to be a useful source of information, even more so than they'd ever expected. When the group of five finally scaled the mountain leading to the temple, a few moments to himself was all he needed to skew the pendant in such a way that it became a key. Isobel watched intently as he slipped the key into the door, mesmerized by the intricacy of the carvings and how well it had been preserved.

When the doors fell open, a truly magnificent spectacle was revealed to them. While the chill was nearly unbearable, the beauty of the large chamber before them was enough to distract them as they moved deeper into it. Genitivi began to search the carved walls, his gloved fingers tracing the iced over tales of Andraste's life. Each new hewn picture depicted another event in Andraste's beautiful life. His eyes burned as he held back overwhelmed tears.

Cailan stood very still, eyes wide with awe as he stared up at the ceiling. Everything was slick, and every beam of light made the ice glitter. Each icicle was a work of art, a piece of beauty delivered to this place by the Maker himself. Chella went to her knee, dusting collected snow off of a brazier of some sort. She was tempted to light it, but she didn't have the means. It was so _cold_.

Isobel walked forward slowly, as carefully as she could manage. Interest drove her to separate herself from the party. Columns taller than she'd ever seen ran down each side of the room. While the ruins at Ostagar rendered her speechless, she found that she could hardly breathe looking up at these. While it hurt at first, she pressed a hand to one of the wide stone pillars. They even _felt_ old. She shut her eyes, a soft smile curling at her lips. While she had never truly excelled at history, much to her tutor's dismay, she respected it.

"It's wonderful, isn't it?" came a voice from behind her. The sound startled her, and she turned too quickly, her boots slipping on a thin sheet of ice as she took an abrupt step back. She winced as she readied herself to hit the ground, but she didn't fall. When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring into Cailan's clear blue eyes.

He didn't let her go immediately, but he looked away, glancing upwards at the tall column just in front of them. She couldn't take her eyes off of his face. It was so _close_. He was pale from the chill, and his lips were chapped from the harsh wind they'd been met with on the mountainside. His expression was familiar. It was respect. She felt a slight pull in the center of her chest. "I've… never seen anything like this. It's beautiful."

Isobel felt a heat bloom on her cheeks, and she cursed herself silently for it. Her gauntlets hovered above his arms, unsure if she should pull herself away or not. He didn't force her to make the decision on her own, taking a step back after he was sure she was steady. "It is," she murmured in reply, turning to look up at it again. "Very impressive."

Looking back to him, she saw that he was no longer studying the column. His attentions had turned to her, and she could do nothing but stare back at him. She wanted to say something, to tell him to leave her be or that he was a fool for trusting the Orlesian. Or she just wanted to leave, hoping that her silence would injure him more severely. But she said nothing. After a long silence, Cailan turned and began the short walk back to where Alistair stood with Genitivi. He saw Chella watching his every move, a peculiar glint in her eyes.

"We should hurry," Cailan began, oblivious to the look on Alistair's face. The Grey Warden looked to Isobel over the king's shoulder. She looked uncomfortable. Her walk was stiff, her lips pulled into a thin line. Unsure of what to make of what he'd seen, he chose to ignore it. "Eamon needs the ashes."

"I fear I cannot go with you," Genitivi sighed, "My leg is worse after that climb. I would like to stay here." He gestured towards the carvings in the wall. "I wish to study these. I believe they may contain insight into Andraste's life none of us have ever imagined."

"Will you be safe?" Alistair asked. He didn't want to leave the brother by himself, especially if he was in any danger. "

Genitivi chuckled, nodding. "I am a lot safer here than I was back at Haven. Thank you for bringing me with you." He looked to Cailan, a faintly paternal smile on his face. "The temple will protect me. The men who built it knew what they were doing. The faithful shall walk freely."

Cailan looked to Alistair, who snapped into attention, an unwilling reaction to feeling the eyes of the king on him. "We should go." Alistair nodded his agreement. A quick check revealed that there were only a few poultices among the four of them, along with a small satchel they'd use to keep the ashes. Without another moment of delay, they set off into the ruined temple.

They met many men and women along the way. Cultists. Zealous and violent townspeople from Haven, all eager to have the intruders cut down as quickly as possible. They were disturbing Andraste's final resting place, and they had to be punished. The look of blind fanaticism in their eyes made Cailan uncomfortable, and he voiced his opinion as they moved along, claiming that men who believed so strongly in their duty were more dangerous than those with a mind of their own. Alistair found this funny, as Cailan had many such supporters once upon a time.

The fighting was intense, and Isobel found herself overwhelmed by the sheer number of them more often than not. Flanking their attackers was impossible in such tight corridors. The only way to strike them was to wade into the very heart of the group. It was reckless, and she could hardly see at times due to the blood that coated her face by the time the flurry of swords and shields came to a close. But she felt much better with Alistair at her back. Every time she heard the distinct sound of his shield ramming into the oncoming body of a cultist, her morale grew, her own shield arm doubling in strength.

As they pushed through the winding hallways, desperately searching for the answer to whatever lie in their path, they found that their enemies dwindled in number. Each door they opened was met with a growl of lower volume. Each skirmish ended more quickly and with less injury. Still, it was difficult.

After hours of searching the ruined temple, they saw the dwelling dissolve before them, leaving way to nothing but ancient stone. The chill sharpened, but the flush of battle kept them warm. Their blood seemed to mix with fire in their veins, keeping their skin pink and their eyes alight.

Despite Isobel's distrust of Chella, she could not deny that her skilled use of her daggers had more helped than hindered them. While she'd been furious at Cailan's decision to take her along in Arryn's place, she was not glad of it. She didn't want her new friend and the party's only mage cut down by the insane.

The cavern was full of surprises. This was to be expected of a place so long standing. They hadn't, however, anticipated wandering right into the feeding room of any number of dragons, nor did they think of being attacked by them, despite Genitivi's guide telling them to be wary. Surrounded by the stench of the rotting corpses of sheep and goats, they were attacked by three drakes. Clearly not full grown, but still more dangerous than anything they'd faced yet, the four of them very nearly lost.

As the final drake fell in a heap onto the ground, Isobel collapsed onto her knees, her body only held upright by her blade. She clutched onto the grip of her sword, face pressed into the cool metal of her gauntlets. "How much more of this?" she growled, exhaustion curling its fingers around her words. She knew the ashes was worth this. That find was worth every drop of blood shed, if not more, but from where she was kneeling, everything seemed to so far off.

Alistair and Cailan stood in silence, unsure of what to tell her. Chella had run off just after the fight to scout out ahead, leaving them alone with the distressed Warden. Unsurprisingly, it was Alistair who went to his knee in front of her. His hand was heavy on her head as he ran his fingers through her hair. She winced noticeably at the pressure, and he jerked his hand away, remembering the bump. "We are not far from the mountains." Even though she wanted desperately to be unmoved by his words, she found her muscles aching to stand. "If the Urn is anywhere, it is in the mountains."

Just as Alistair was helping Isobel to her feet, Chella appeared at the doorway, her breath ragged from running. "There is a man not far from here," she gasped, trying franticly to catch her breath and divulge the information at the same time. "He is heavily guarded. Two mages and three men. They all appeared to be soldiers." She paused, "They are unlike anything we've seen so far."

"There is always a chance they are willing to speak with us peacefully," Cailan insisted. It was obvious the king grasped at straws, and Alistair was not going to have that. Not now.

He scoffed, "Is that what you believe? In that case, why didn't we surrender our weapons and armor back there with all those undoubtedly nice cultists? I'm sure _they_ were willing to see the reason in things."

Cailan ignored Alistair's eyes, looking instead to Isobel. "We will be ready for a fight, but we must not go in with only that in mind. If this man is so heavily guarded, he must be their leader. Should compromise not be reached, we have enough healing to keep us through another fight. After they are dead, we leave."

"Without the ashes?" Isobel's voice was distant and not wholly her own.

As much as it pained him to do so, Cailan nodded.

--

The man's name was Kolgrim. He was the leader of the Children of Andraste, protectors of the ashes and her final resting place. He was a tall man, with a full black beard and a beautifully forged sword at his back. His men were similarly outfitted, and they watched with unveiled suspicion as the king and his three party members strode forward. When neither of them struck out, an odd feeling of ease fell upon them. While this would not begin in a fight, Cailan was not sure it would not end in one.

Their conversation was enlightening to say the very least. Kolgrim spoke with a clearly heavy heart about Andraste. Her name quivered on his lips, and he continued with such reverence that his expression bordered upon the zealots they'd slaughtered in the temple. Still, Cailan listened to every word, choosing his own responses with such care that Isobel found herself wondering when he'd become so well-spoken. While a charming man, the king conversed with Kolgrim with patience she'd never expected from him.

Kolgrim had a favor to ask. He truly believed that Andraste had returned to the land of the living. While he did not describe her new form, he was sure that her ashes were what was keeping her chained to the place. Should he accept the task of destroying the ashes, he would be the prophetess' savior, heralded throughout Ferelden.

Cailan's initial response was to decline, but there was an honesty in Kolgrim's voice when he spoke of the glory that would come with the act that ensnared him. As he stood there, consumed in thought, Isobel stepped forward. "Do you think this is wise?" she said in a harsh whisper. "You are actually considering defiling Andraste's ashes?"

She saw Chella move up beside him. "I think you should agree, Cailan." When she received a burning glare from the Warden, she narrowed her eyes, as well. "I cannot explain my reasoning here, but you should take the dragon's blood."

Without another moment of consideration, Cailan extended a hand to Kolgrim. The man placed the vial of dragon's blood in his palm, offering the king a warm smile. "Many generations will thank you, good King Cailan."

Just as soon as they exited the cave, Alistair grabbed Cailan by the arm and whirled him around. "What do you think you're doing?" Cailan opened his mouth to give an angry protest, but Alistair did not give him time to speak. "Are you really going to do it? Maker's breath, Cailan, are you insane?" He couldn't stop himself. He didn't want to berate Cailan. The man could have him killed for less. But he just couldn't stem the flow of words leaving his mouth. "You've put us into the direct path of enough danger already! Your shameless search for admiration is ridiculous! You're already king! What more do you want!?"

Isobel's eyes fell to the ground at her feet, and she shifted uncomfortably. Something struck her. This anger wasn't just about the blood or the ashes or even all the close calls they'd run into because of him. Some of it was about her.

"Do not take it out on him, Alistair," Chella snapped. "I told him I had an idea, and I do. No ashes are going to be defiled." Her hand went to Alistair's and she tossed it off of Cailan's arm, making no attempt to hide her annoyance. "How will this fool know we've drowned the ashes in this blood?" she asked, lifting the vial out of Cailan's hand. "He won't. Unless he visits the Urn himself, it will remain a mystery."

It was a decent plan. Actually, it was a _good_ plan, given they could get to the ashes.

As the four of them stood on the cobblestone bridge leading down to what looked like another temple carved from the mountain itself, there was a shrill cry in the air. The sound sent chills through every single one of them. Their eyes went to the sky only to see what they'd least expected. A dragon. It was larger than any creature they'd ever laid their eyes on, with huge flapping wings and a thick body, all the same uniform shade of dark purple. As it reared in their direction, they all ducked behind some form of cover.

Isobel's chest rose and fell as the shock of it nearly drove her to panic. Cailan looked from Chella to Alistair and Isobel before peeking up over the large crate he dove behind. The dragon was resting on one of the taller mountains, its head rested on its taloned feet. "Do you think it's safe?" he asked, though he wondered why he was whispering.

"Oh, yes," Alistair shot him a long-suffering look. "It's only a dragon. Do you want to go and see if it'll be willing to come to a peaceful solution?" Isobel thwacked Alistair on the back of his head. He yelped, his hand flying up to where she'd hit him. Despite the pain, he chuckled. "That wasn't necessary."

She leaned forward to whisper into his ear, "I believe it was."

The humor in her voice made him feel the slightest bit better about things. Dragon or not, they were still on an important mission. Without the ashes, Eamon would die. Alistair would sooner run into that damn dragon's mouth than let that come to past. And with Isobel at his side, whether she was abusing him or not, things felt easier.

As quietly as they could manage, the group made their way down the bridge, towards the temple. The dragon rested on the mountaintop, completely unaware to their presence, as if it couldn't rightly care one way or another. After sneaking along for some time, Chella shrugged and straightened herself, content with walking normally. Cailan followed her example, though he remained cautious, and the two Grey Wardens followed his.

The temple's architecture was in some ways similar to the one they'd entered with Brother Genitivi. It was just as old, if better preserved, and the group entered cautiously to find that, while the outer shell was weathered, the inside looked virtually untouched by the hand of time. Cailan ventured forward, towards a door near the end of the room. Beside the door stood a man in bright, shining armor. He regarded the king with a wary eye, but he did not move. When Cailan finally came to stand before him, the man tilted his head down to look into his face.

"I had not expected to find myself in the company of a king."

His words gave Cailan goosebumps. How had he known? Had someone warned the man of their arrival? His shock must've been evident on his features, and the spirit chuckled. "I know all." Neither Isobel nor Alistair noticed Chella tense considerably behind them. They were too focused on the man, nearly lifted out of their bodies with an otherworldly inquisitiveness. "You are here to visit the Urn of Andraste, are you not?"

Cailan nodded. "We are," he said softly. "May we pass?"

The spirit inclined his head towards the door, but he did not move otherwise. "You must first pass the Gauntlet before you are able to look upon the Urn. The Gauntlet will deem you worthy or unworthy. Should you be the latter, you will be denied entrance." It seemed straightforward enough. "But first, I ask you a question. All of you."

Chella stood to Cailan's left, so close to him she nearly disappeared next to his height. She did not want to be asked a question, unsure of what the specter would ask her.

But she was not the first to be questioned. "Cailan," the spirit began, "You have spent most of your life idolizing your father, and yet you make all of his mistakes. Why?"

Cailan felt the blood drain from his face. "I-I don't know," he breathed. This was not true. He knew exactly why, but the thought was a poisonous one and speaking it would only render it the truth. "I admire him. He's everything I've known." _And I am afraid if I try to be my own man, I will fail…_

The spirit was not pleased with his answer, but he continued, turning to Alistair. "You regret leaving Duncan to fight the Darkspawn. Do you regret that you were not by his side to shield him from the death blow? Even if that means you would have died yourself?"

Isobel looked to Alistair. His eyes were glassy, and his lip gave a small, barely noticeable quiver. Blinking back the tears, he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again, unsure of how to phrase his answer. His eyes fell to his hand as he felt warm fingers curling through his. Looking up the arm of the woman who held his hand, he saw Isobel's soft face. It was full of encouragement. Despite the sadness that wrecked him at the question, the sudden onslaught of thoughts about Duncan, the feeling of her palm pressed to his caused his heart to shudder in his chest. He turned to the spirit. "I do. I wish I could have been there. If my death meant his life, everything would be much better off now."

Content, the spirit turned his attention to Isobel, as did everyone else. She shifted, uncomfortable, at their interest. "My question to you is a simple one." Oddly enough, his words did not soothe the quaking in her gut. "Do you regret leaving your mother behind in the hands of Rendon Howe?"

"Yes," was her weak answer. She hadn't expected her answer to come so swiftly or carried on such a quiet voice. Clearing her throat, she looked up at the spirit. The feeling of Alistair's hand squeezing hers was all that kept her from refusing to finish her statement. "I do regret it, but I feel it was necessary. I had… I had to find Fergus. To tell him what happened."

The spirit nodded, and then he turned to Chella. Before he was able to speak, she lifted a hand. "Don't bother," she said simply.

Whatever the rest of them expected from the specter, it didn't deliver. Instead, he inclined his head, and the door directly to his right opened.

* * *

  
**A/N:** Argh, you guys! Haha, I feel I should apologize for the last two chapters, as they've been a little lackluster, in my opinion. I'm not exactly sure why I think so. I hope that's not the case for you! Anyway, uh, I hope you liked it, regardless of what I think. ;) Thank you again for the reviews!


	15. Chapter 15

Sleep did not come easily for Cailan that night. Despite the almost heavenly feeling of relief at having the ashes in hand for his uncle, the day's happenings wore on his mind, causing him to slip in and out of a dazed near-sleep state and utter alertness. He hated lying on his back, staring up at the tent above him and trying desperately to focus on something other than his thoughts. He could hear his men, some snoring and others conversing in hushed whispers no matter the hour. He could hear the quiet whistle of the wind. But the one sound that echoes between his ears was the sound of his father's voice.

The Gauntlet. While the name was daunting in itself, the first task was nothing for Cailan. Alistair and Isobel watched as he spoke to the specters, unwinding each riddle as if he'd already known what they would ask. The king's deep love for history brought forth a glow to his face as he recounted the story of Andraste and the Maker and her jealous lover as the ethereal phantoms disappeared into nothing.

While they lot of them often doubted Cailan's common sense, it was impossible to deny his firm grip on history. He owed his to his mother. Rowan swore she'd fill their castle up with books with or without Maric's approval, and each of the books soon found their way into the hands of her son, who lapped up stories and tales like a starving kitten. It was one of the many things that filled her with pride when it came to Cailan.

With the final riddle answered, the door at the end of the chamber fell open. Cailan ventured forward, his hand poised on his blade as his body tensed. None of them knew what might lie around the next corner. Drakes? More cultists? A wraith or a dozen? What they were met with, however, was beyond Cailan's wildest expectations.

He came face to face with his father.

Maric stood before him just as he remembered from his childhood. For those following him, there was hardly a difference between the two men who stood there, regarding each other. The former king was a few inches taller than his son, but it was like looking into a mirror. Long golden hair, milky pale skin, blue eyes, square shoulders, and an expression of confusion. On both their faces.

Cailan was the first to speak. "F-father?"

Chella moved forward, her brow creased and mouth hard, but she was snatched back by Isobel. Jerking her arm out of the Warden's indelicate grasp, she glared at her and stood her ground. She did not go to comfort him.

"My boy." Maric's voice filled the stone hallway with warmth, and Cailan felt his eyes begin to burn. His chest ached. He wanted nothing more than for this to be real, but it was only part of the task. He could not help but believe that if he was not king, if his father was king, everything would be as it was. There would be peace and an end to the Blight, not civil war amongst the darkspawn horde. "You were questioned. Your answer was not the entire truth."

Maric's matter-of-factness brought Cailan's chin downward in shame. "I meant it," he said softly.

"But you did not bare all, nor did you answer directly." Maric's lips turned upward in a hint of a smile, and he reached forward to bring his son's face up to look into it. He paused. His hand fell back to his side. "I am not here to chide you, son. I only wish to know your true answer." He chuckled, and Cailan lifted his eyes to gaze upon the specter, watching a charming smile unfold on his father's lips. "You could always get away with such maneuvering, especially with your mother. I doubt she was ever able to get an answer out of you in serious matters."

Cailan's eyes glittered in the light of a few flickering lamps. He lifted a hand to wipe away the tears that gathered, smiling to himself. "I don't know what you wish to hear," he admitted. "I have none of your confidence."

"My confidence?" Maric asked, aghast. "You have confidence in spades, Cailan." The former king's eyes flicked to Chella, who took an unconscious step back, farther into the darkness. It nearly engulfed her, but the ghost could see enough - her full lips, the curve of her bosom and hips, her tense, uncomfortable posture. "Perhaps too much, now that I think of it."

Cailan did not understand, but he did not ask his father to explain, either.

Maric sighed, looking back to his son. "Do not fear being your own man." His voice was solemn now, as was his expression. "Shape your own life. Protect your people and Ferelden, but do not neglect those closest to you while you do so." Sadness pierced his features. "I made such a mistake, and it nearly cost me everything. You must be careful. Be wary, but do not harden yourself to those who truly care for you."

The king's eyes fluttered shut as he listened to his father's voice. He wanted to capture these words, to lock them in his mind and never forget them. The five years since he'd last spoken to his father had been filled with an unspoken grief that he never quite understood. He was missing an element of closure, no doubt due to his being tossed onto the throne while his father's body was still warm. But this… this felt like closure.

"I love you, Cailan."

Rubbing the butt of his palm in his eye, Cailan turned over in the dark. What has his father meant? The words replayed over and over in his head, but he could not make sense of them.

Neglect. The word conjured forth a singular memory. The day Chella arrived at the camp, Isobel had entered his tent with such panache, her cheeks aflame with an excitement that was uncommon to her. She'd smiled at him, a faltering, unsure thing that seemed foreign on her hopeful expression. And then she'd left, her face still flushed, but her eyes somewhat colder. At the time, he had not realized what lay behind those eyes, but now the emotion was as clear as day. It was disappointment.

He knew this because she'd looked at him with those same eyes earlier that day.

When they finally reached the Urn of Sacred Ashes, they were met with a line of fire. There was an altar just before the flames that presented them with a riddle that needed no answer. Give forth your worldly chains and step into the cleansing flame. They stripped themselves of their armor and weapons in silence, all but one of them staring up at the urn with shameless admiration.

Chella palmed the vial of dragon's blood, watching as Cailan stepped forward.

The sight was one to behold. Even without his armor, he still seemed larger than life. His skin glowed in the firelight, the light caressing each muscle and strand of hair as he moved through the flames. His step was heavy and slow, and she saw him struggle to keep himself upright as he passed into the chilled chamber and away from the fire. Alistair followed him with Isobel not far behind, and Chella regarded the wall of fire with suspicion before stepping through it.

Before them, a single spear of light filtered in from the ceiling, casting a bright white glow onto the urn. This was it. This was the urn of Andraste. Within the beautiful urn lay the ashes of the Maker's beloved, the prophetess.

Chella went to Cailan's side, taking his wrist in her hand and placing the vial onto his palm. She looked up at him, her eyes surprisingly docile. There was a yearning there that he felt himself surrender to, however unwillingly.

"What are you doing?" Isobel gasped.

Cailan turned around quickly. With her fingers still laced around the king's wrist, Chella just barely masked a look of utter loathing aimed directly at the female Warden. His eyes met hers, and his blood ran cold. She was staring at him, her lips parted in shock, but there was also an anger. Confusion. Distaste.

"Cailan," Isobel began, her voice dropping despite the lump in her throat. "This is the urn of Andraste. Its healing properties are a gift, and you are willing to destroy it?" She felt deceived; betrayed even. They'd risked so much coming here to save his uncle's life, and now he was going to snatch that same chance from his own people? "You will let her convince you to let you do something so… so _despicable_?"

Glancing to the woman at his side, he caught her displeasure. It lingered for a moment, but she snapped back into the same look she'd given him not long before. His stomach turned. "I can't." His words were hardly a whisper, but he watched as they hit Chella with the weight of a shield. She opened her mouth to protest. Any speech was rendered mute as the vial fell to the floor. It smashed into a thousand pieces, and they watched in silence as the viscous blood spread over the stones.

Without a word, the Orlesian stepped back.

Cailan sighed, shifting beneath his furs. To have anyone look at him the way Isobel had broke his heart. And yet he wouldn't have had the strength to deny Chella's wishes had she not been there. It was both a blessing and a curse, it seemed, as he could not erased that look from the back of his eyes.

Sitting up from his bedroll, he scrubbed a hand over his face. Sleep was not going to come. At least, not full, heavy sleep. Instead of lying there for hours more, Cailan slipped on his boots and hefted the large fur onto his shoulders. The cold was not as sharp as he remembered in the temple. It remained, but it was softer and more tolerable. Ducking out of his tent, he was met with the inky blackness of midnight. The sky was stuck through with stars. The moon hung full and bright above his head, casting a cool glow over the camp.

Without any particular heading in mind, Cailan weaved in and out of the tents, clutching the fur close around himself. No matter how quiet everything was, he did not feel lonely.

He didn't stop walking until he saw someone sitting alone, not far off from the camp. From a distance, it could have been anyone, but as he ventured closer, details sprung out that painted her to be Isobel. She was watching the path before her, a rag working on the shining metal of her shield and a quiet song on her lips. While the song itself was unfamiliar, the feeling behind it wasn't one easily mistaken. It was the sort of song a mother sings to a child.

She seemed far off, unwitting of anything besides her watch and the shield resting in her lap, but all it took was a snapped twig to have her jerk to attention, her eyes wide and her song silenced. Cailan moved forward quickly, his hands held palms outward. "No, no, don't stop," he said in a rushed whisper.

"Why?" she asked, her head tilted slightly to the side. "I'm not a very good singer." Looking away from him, she turned back to her task, though the shield was as shiny as it could possibly be.

"It's very soothing," Cailan pressed.

Isobel gave a quiet snort of laughter. "Your compliments need work, Cailan. My singing is about as soothing as an afternoon in the stocks." Still, she looked up at him, watching as he stood before her and did the same. "Thank you, though."

"I believe I should be thanking you," he admitted, gathering up the fur and placing himself on the ground beside her. "I… don't know what would've happened today if it wasn't for you." The truth was that he did know. Today was the fork in the road, the beginning of another chapter or another volume of journals. From those two choices branched entirely different futures, and this one was the one he knew his father would have chosen. Knowing this filled him with warmth.

Isobel nodded, but she did not speak.

Cailan couldn't look away from her. In comparison to Chella, there was no contest of beauty. The Orlesian was without a single flaw. Isobel's eyes were small, yet bright, and her lips were chapped from the harsh wind. Her skin was freckled and tan; her hands, calloused. But she was strong and steady. She had the stiff spine he'd always envied. All of this lifted her to an entirely different level from the other woman, a level that was nearly unreachable.

Reaching out, Cailan rested his hand lightly on her cheek. A small puff of smoke filled the air as she sighed, her rag ceasing all movement and her eyes falling closed. Her skin was soft against his fingers. He could feel her press her face against his warm palm, nearly melting into his skin. That was all the encouragement he needed.

With one hand rested on her jaw and the other sliding beneath her hair to curl at the back of her neck, he drew her into him. The moment their lips met, he was filled with a sudden anxiety. Would she pull away as she had the first time? Or was it too late for her to change her mind? Would she regret it later? Was she truly willing, or was this charity?

All of his question found their answers as Isobel's lips moved tentatively against his. She slid her shield off of her lap and her body turned unconsciously toward him. her hands blindly seeking him out. Her fingers slid into his hair, and he shivered at the sensation. He broke the kiss, withdrawing with incredible hesitance.

He searched her eyes for that disappointment, but he could not see it. He did not know what he saw - his mind and heart were both racing far too quickly for him to think clearly - but it was not disappointment. A single tug was all it took for Cailan to nearly topple forward, but Isobel caught him.

She snatched him up with her lips and refused to let go.

* * *

  
**A/N:** Long time, no see! Which is entirely my fault due to a very busy season. I wanted to thank you all again for such nice reviews. It really makes everything worthwhile, knowing there are others out there who enjoy the writing, and I appreciate every single one of them. I also wanted to wish everyone a happy holiday! No matter what you celebrate!


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning was met with hushed whispers, just as Isobel and Cailan expected. After a night spent talking, huddled beneath the heavy furs, they made their way out of the forest to the camp. Together.

The ground was covered in a thin mist, and coupled with the peachy glow of the morning sun, everything around them seemed doused with a warm haze. Alistair was preparing some semblance of breakfast near the fire when he heard Arryn give a quiet gasp at his side. Glancing up from the flames, he saw the king still dressed as he'd gone to sleep - rumpled black trousers and nondescript shirt, fur clutched tight around his shoulders. But the shiniest accessory adorning the man was the smile on his face. It was shameless, and it matched the one Isobel wore

The Warden pressed his lips into a thin line before turning back to his task. He tried to block out Arryn's girlish giggle, but could not. Nor could he stop himself from hearing her turn to Godfrey and express her excitement.

"I told you it would happen," she whispered, biting back a delightful grin. "When am I going to get those three silvers you promised?"

Godfrey groaned. "You don't know anything, Arryn. They're just walking together, is all."

It was clear that even he didn't believe his words. There was something different about them - an almost visible link between the two that spoke volumes without either of them saying a word. The way he looked at her. The shy smile she gave him before ducking into her tent to get ready for the day. The expression of personal satisfaction when he turned away and made his way toward the fire.

Arryn wasn't the only one talking. Murmurs erupted all over the camp, all too quiet for Cailan to notice, but loud enough to rouse Chella's suspicions. She could hear all of it. The king and the female Warden. Something was going on between them. How had this happened? Years of plucking the right notes to woo nobility and she couldn't snag a king for long enough to get her job done? It wasn't as if her task was difficult. She'd accomplished it a thousand times before. She had to think. Fast.

Cailan smiled to himself as he sat across from Arryn. He warmed his hands on the fire, oblivious to everyone suddenly leaning slightly forward, overcome with curiosity and the desire to ask him their shared question. No one had the guts to speak up. Instead, the king looked to Arryn. "I've been meaning to ask you about the condition of Brother Genitivi."

The elf perked up, "Oh! Yes, he's doing very well. He'll be completely recovered in no time."

"That's good," Cailan said with a short sigh of relief. Biting on his fleshy bottom lip, he turned to look at Alistair only to be ignored completely. "I've been strategizing, and I've come up with a very good plan. At least, it seems so to me." He heaved a small burst of laughter. His last ingenious plan hadn't ended very well. Still, he'd been fed plans by someone with the intent of deceiving him. Isobel wouldn't do that. "We are going to split into two."

He watched as Chella settled down onto the ground some ways off from the rest, but still near to the fire. Her expression was sober and vaguely uninterested. "Two groups can cover more ground than one." Looking from face to face, he could tell that everyone was waiting for the kicker - that one thing that they all wouldn't agree with. Some sort of death wish or desperate ploy at glory. It didn't come.

Instead, Isobel made her way out of her tent to stand behind the king. It took all of her strength to keep from resting a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her, and they shared another smile. "I will head into Orzammar, and Isobel will lead the troupe heading east."

Alistair's eyebrow nearly hit his hairline. That hadn't been expected. After all those looks and smiles, he could've sworn they'd be off gallivanting in the dwarven city in no time, backed by a handful of soldiers for appearances and appearances alone.

"Our first stop will be Redcliffe," Isobel interjected. "After Arl Eamon is recovered, we will leave for Denerim to return Brother Genitivi to his home." She looked to Godfrey, "You will be my second-in-command."

The soldier's eyes lit up, and he could hardly suppress the smile that curled at his lips. "I am honored."

"Alistair," Cailan smiled, "You will be with me. As will you, Arryn."

Chella looked up from her lap, eyebrows furrowed. "And what of me? Who will I be traveling with?" Some small part of her knew the answer to her question. Isobel, the schemer that she was, would've offered to have her travel with her, no doubt to get her away from Cailan.

"You will be with me."

Isobel hardly masked the look of smug gladness that took over her face, and Chella had no qualms of matching it with a glare. So she would be paired with the Warden after all. Jealousy was an unattractive trait, and she hadn't a face pretty enough to mask it.

Cailan's pride in his plans painted him a deeper shade of oblivious to the Orlesian's reaction. He could hardly see her hatred for Isobel when he focused on either of them, much less when his entire person was humming with excitement at another step in what he felt was the right direction. Not only that, but his mind was playing a terrible trick on him by recounting the previous night's encounter with the lady Warden even as he tried to dust those thoughts away for the time being.

Biting down a little harder on his bottom lip, he turned and glanced up to Isobel only to find her staring off into the distance. He cleared his throat and she nearly jumped, a smile appearing as her shocked expression faded. "I'd like to speak with you," he said, but his softer voice was drowned out by the sounds around the camp.

Still, she understood his statement and nodded, leaning down to mutter something into his ear. His cheeks flushed pink and he heaved a tremulous laugh. When he stood and disappeared into his tent, Isobel set herself down where he'd been sitting.

"What was _that_ about?" Arryn asked. The elf leaned forward, eager to lap up any story she might be willing to give. For all of their time together, the Warden had been the most accepting to her inquisitive nature and constant questions. Even Godfrey often tired of her curiosity, citing a headache or other duties when their conversations wore past the acceptable limit. But she could talk to Isobel for hours and the warrior never tired of her.

Isobel claimed this was because of her father's obsession with storytelling. The former Teyrn of Highever often gathered his pups after dinner to tell them this tale or that, often wearing on into the night far beyond their bedtime. Whether these tales were true or not was up for speculation. Her mother was often forced to chide her husband for filling Isobel's mind with fanciful tales when he'd never experienced or even heard of anything of the sort. No matter, the younger Cousland listened to her father enthusiastically.

"Oh, nothing important," she chuckled, sinking her teeth into her lip to mask a devious smile. "I pointed out that he was not properly dressed."

A peel of laughter erupted around the fire.

"I knew the king cannot pace himself when giving orders, but I never realized he was quite so impatient," Godfrey coughed, rubbing a hand over the dark beard on his chin. "He's been away from the throne for too long. Some time ago, he wouldn't have been caught dead improperly dressed."

When Cailan emerged from his tent clad in shining golden armor, those who'd been whispering of him moments before couldn't help but chuckle to themselves. He arched a brow at Isobel as she joined him on the trail leading into the forest. "That was odd. An explanation wouldn't go amiss."

Isobel grinned, eyes clinging to the dirt path beneath her feet. "They're a teasing bunch, you know that."

"Do you think they know?" he asked. His words nearly ran into each other, parted from his lips with such speed that Isobel hardly understood them at first.

She gasped and gave her head a shake. "About us? I hardly think so." She thought of this for a moment. Arryn knew more of her heart than she did, but even the mage would not have guessed such an event lie before her. She was too busy winding fanciful tales about Alistair's heart-rendering, unrequited love. It made no sense. "Oh, no, not at all! They couldn't."

The two walked together for some time. Isobel kept a wary watch on the road ahead, hand poised on the hilt of her blade no matter how light the conversation was. Eventually they slowed to a stop, unsure of where they were headed. Neither of them had given this much thought. There was no need. She was unconvinced that he had plans for their future, just as he was sure her attraction was born out of his own persuasion.

As it was, she was a Grey Warden, and he was the king. The married king. The undeniably handsome king…

Cailan gave a little yelp as he felt himself being pulled forward. This alarm dissolved quickly, leaving nothing but a quiet sound of pleasure at the sensation of her mouth against his. His gauntlets were heavy against her waist, but she welcomed the feeling. The kiss itself did not last, but she lingered close, her quickened breath ghosting over his lips.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to doing that," she whispered. Her gaze flicked between his mouth and his own blue eyes. It was different being this close to him in the bright sunshine. Their night had been filled with anxious hands and fumbling in the dark. Now she could see the tiny facets of gold in his eyes, his thick, dark lashes, the almost nonexistent dimple in his cheek when he smiled.

Her fingers untwined themselves from his hair and touched the spot on his cheek. From his lips came a soft sigh, and he brought her closer against himself. "That is not a bad thing, I hope."

"I'll certainly be thinking about it more often than I should while you're on the other side of Ferelden."

There was a hint of unhappiness in her voice. While she'd been wielding a sword for most of her life, only after joining the king's ranks did she find her true stride. She did not fear loneliness with the king gone to Orzammar and her to Denerim. She was no innocent, reeling after her first kiss and eager to tag along behind the man with the wet eyes of a pup.

But she did fear that she would not be able to fight. What would happen to morale without Cailan beside her? Without his encouraging words, his optimism, his engaging smile? Could she shoulder the responsibility herself? Was she ready for that sort of duty? Every fiber of her being screamed that she could not.

"I wish this was not the only way," he murmured, smoothing a hand over Isobel's hair. "I'm unsure of how to otherwise proceed and how much time there is left. Or even if there's any sense in attempting to call upon these people."

Cailan's paranoia ran deep when it came to Loghain. It was a river of suspicion and mistrust not weathered over time, but cut through in a single deep blow. He hated not knowing what went on in Ferelden as he skulked about in the forests like a bandit. And there was nothing more crippling than being unsure when your confidence had been steadfast for all of your years. He hardly knew how to cope much less advance.

This was one of the main reason he'd so eagerly passed the reins onto Isobel. When she finally took them, unwilling at first, but with growing conviction, he was relieved. No more would die because of his inability to gauge those standing just before him.

"Of course there is sense," Isobel protested. "That bastard Loghain has Ferelden at his beck and call _only_ because they believe you're dead. When they find out that you are alive, they will be by your side."

As she spoke, her hands left his hair and rested gingerly along his neck. If they all thought he was dead, wouldn't this be the perfect time to leave? It would be easier to take off his sword and disappear. Even after two months, he could hardly wrap his mind around what had happened. How could one man fall so far…

His attention was brought back to the present as he focused on the feeling of Isobel's thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of his throat. Goosebumps erupted on his arms, and he leaned forward, pressing his face to hers. The sound of her breathing was comforting; the warmth she emitted, soothing. She enveloped him without so much as an embrace.

They'd come so far in such short a time. The woman who stood so content before him began as a frustrating mystery, an unknown quantity, a creature to be both admired and, should you be on the wrong side of her sword, feared. But something shifted, and her tough outer shell was cracked to reveal a secret inner vulnerability that only added to her appeal. It was not weakness. Cailan was sure Isobel Cousland had not a weak bone in her body. It was something larger and not wholly understandable by anyone… for she was a woman. The warrior from Highever turned Grey Warden, champion of Redcliffe, preserver of Andraste's ashes - she was human, and she was a woman.

"You must stay safe." Cailan's whisper was sudden and unexpected. The concern thick in his voice rubbed her raw. It was not an order, nor was it a plea. It was a question.

"I'm in no more danger than you will be, Cailan," she stated plainly. "I will do as you instructed. And no matter what happens, I will meet you at Lake Calenhad." She would not betray him, but she could tell by the sad glint in his eye that he could not believe her entirely. His trust in Loghain had been all-inclusive, and he could not find it within himself to instill such faith within someone else so soon. "There is more waiting for me by staying true than there is on the other side."

Cailan's breath hitched at her words, and he cursed his fingers for their trembling as he combed them through her hair again. "Perhaps I should have kissed Loghain before the battle," he chuckled, eager to remove his thoughts from her small pledge. It was easier to rely on humor than to accept sincerity. This trait was one that rang true to his heritage. A son of Maric without a sense of humor would not have been the late king's son at all. "That might've changed his mind."

He watched as a small smile formed on Isobel's lips. "Either that, or he would've cut you down where you stood. He doesn't strike me as an affectionate type."

Before he was able to conjure up some sort of response, Cailan kissed her once more. He didn't know how he would survive in the depths of the dwarven city without her lips. He didn't rightly know how he'd survived all his years not knowing them.

* * *

**A/N:** Egads, you guys! It's so _mushy_ and _sickeningly sweet_. I'm not used to all of this setting up without having a battle scene or SOME kind of angst. Anyway - another round of thanks to everyone reading. It makes me absolutely giddy to know there are those out there who enjoy reading this nonsense! :) And, trust me, there will be something violent happening soon.

Dun, dun, dun... ominous.


	17. Chapter 17

As her breath hitched in her throat, all Isobel could hear was the quiet popping of bones. The pain overwhelmed her vision. It blurred the figure stationed near her hands and sent the entire room into near darkness. Her mind was a mess of fire and barely formed words. How had this happened? She'd taken all the necessary precautions. She had Godfrey at her back along with all those soldiers. Who knew where they were now, if they were even still alive.

Even her quiet moaning had stopped by now. Her jaw was swollen so much that she was forced to breathe through her nose. Each inhalation sent another blinding pain up into her forehead. Everything smelled like blood.

The man was silent now that he knew her confession would not be coming as easily as he'd hoped. A patch of red was drying on his chin, spat from the mouth of a desperate woman. "You'll get nothing from me," she'd hissed. Her bravery was awarded with nothing more than another beating. The straps keeping her tight against the board shook as she struggled to free herself, but they did not give way. A balled fist to the jaw was all it took. Now she was mute.

Isobel shifted slightly. A scream was silenced in her throat as her entire body raged in protest. The board was splintering, and she felt slivers of wood digging into her already ravaged shoulders. She could focus on nothing but the pain. Ignoring the device strapped to her fingers led to focusing on the fire that licked her broken jaw or the throbbing that curled around the welts that spread from neck to thigh.

She was afraid to close her eyes. She was afraid that if she shut her eyes, they would never open again. Dread curled heavy and leaden in her stomach. She couldn't die here. She couldn't. She had to meet Cailan at Lake Calenhad. There was darkspawn to be fought. There was a country to save from the Blight.

These thoughts seemed so far away now. Childish, even.

"Has she spoken?"

The voice was familiar, but she could hardly hear the man as he stepped up beside the man. Each word was garbled. Her sight cleared for long enough to see his face. Dark hair, pale skin, heavy silver armor… Loghain. He continued to speak, but his voice drifted off into nothing as she fell unconscious.

"Nothing, ser," the torturer muttered. He was clearly unhappy with himself. Thirty years at Fort Drakon, and he'd only been met with this problem a handful of times. Arl Howe had insisted on the most diligent and painstakingly careful man for this prisoner. At first, he'd been hesitant. The Grey Wardens were no ordinary humans. They were something higher, something… better. Now they were so few, and he was expected to break one of them? "But I am not finished."

Loghain nodded. He looked to the Warden. She was a pathetic sight. Stripped of her armor, she was lying strapped against the board, hair matted and chest quivering as she struggled to breathe. Her skin was smeared with blood and the harsh purple and yellow of bruises old and new. She looked so different when compared to how she'd looked the night of the battle at Ostagar. Only months had passed, yet she'd aged years. But that could have been blamed on her current state.

The man to his left gave a sniff of derision. Despite the feeling of warmth spreading throughout his person at watching the last of the Cousland line fall right before him, he also felt a sharp annoyance at her resolution. "We should have expected this. The bitch never was very talkative."

"Quiet," Loghain snapped. "Leave the man to his work." His stone cold blue eyes went to the torturer, who stared at them expectantly. "He has much to do, and it appears very little time to do it in."

But Howe was not nearly satisfied with the state of things. When Loghain was satisfied by his time spent away from Fort Drakon, he would return. He would see her suffer in more ways than solely the physical.

--

"Maker, we have so many stories to tell her," Cailan mused to himself as he set himself down near the fire. There was a wistful air to him that made Alistair roll his eyes, but everyone else seemed to enjoy. Especially Arryn, who simpered and sighed when he spoke of Isobel in that tone of voice. This was a welcome diversion from her separation from Godfrey. Focusing on the good things came easily for the elf no matter what they'd seen in the Deep Roads.

Everyone's confidence was higher when leaving Orzammar. Their steps were lighter, and they even seemed to travel faster. The king was eager to get to Lake Calenhad. Their speed was born of his desperation to see Isobel again.

He bit on his lip at the thought, not even bothering to hide his smile. "She'll love _you_," he pointedly referred to the newest member of their humble company. The dwarf seemed uninterested at first, but there was a certain curiosity sparked within him that he kept hidden. A woman Grey Warden? Imagine that. He'd heard tales of these Wardens, but they were almost always about men.

And he'd heard _much_ of this Isobel Cousland since first joining the king's crusade into the Deep Roads. Cailan's tongue was sent wagging more often than not, and despite his prowess in battle, when out of it he was clearly no more than a lovesick boy.

The way Oghren saw it, it was better to be led by a man who did not put on airs than a man who pretended to be strong when he was not. In his younger years, all it took was a flutter of an eyelash or a turn of a skirt to have him fumbling over himself. But this king, he was dedicated, _and_ he could bear a sword unlike he would've expected.

While his human compatriots would be quick to judge him, Cailan found an odd companion in the dwarven berserker. He wasn't eager to drink the stout Oghren offered him, as even a fine Orlesian wine knocked him on his ass quick like, but he sat and shared stories with the dwarf as he downed any of the drink he'd brought along.

The night wore on as usual. Everyone save Oghren was thankful for the much warmer weather. For a man used to the thick stone walls and stuffy temperatures of Orzammar, even the lowlands were uncomfortably cold. Cailan was glad to be far away from the mountains, and he was more than eager to bury the icy climes of Haven deep into his memories. Thankfully the fire was enough to keep the chill from Lake Calenhad from overwhelming them.

Alistair was to keep watch. He hated keeping watch. The constant, forced alertness exhausted him, and his thoughts consistently strayed elsewhere. To Duncan, to Isobel… there was a feeling deep in his gut that he couldn't explain, a worry that he'd voiced more than once only to be silenced by Cailan.

"Damn this fog," he grumbled to himself. It was much colder away from the camp, and he could see each breath hanging before his eyes in wisps of smoke. Why couldn't they have met Isobel in Denerim? She was late. They'd expected to meet her nearly a week ago, and they'd spent the rest of that time wasting away the hours with nothing to do but listen to Cailan tell his ridiculous stories.

Bitter? Him? He scoffed at the thought.

She was a noblewoman. Of _course _she'd fall in love with the king and not a royal bastard. What did it matter that he was married? What did it matter that he wasn't actually king anymore, as everyone thought he was dead? Why did he even care?

"Because it might've happened," he muttered, "She was so _close_." Running a hand through the thicket of copper hair atop his head, Alistair could do nothing but heave a heavy sigh. He could blame the current state of his heart on many things. He could blame it on his own hesitance, or he could blame it on some flaw of hers. He could even blame it on Cailan, though he knew his own shortcomings were not by the burden of his half-brother or Isobel. It was some fault in him.

He really was a rampant fool.

Even his own nonsensical ramblings did not mask the sound of a horse approaching. The hooves beat the ground hard as it vaulted over a fallen trunk, never slowing. Alistair fell into action, sliding his sword from its sheath with the clear ring of metal against metal and moving quickly forward. The road was not far off. Bathed in moonlight hindered only by a thin canopy of trees, it was long and winding and led directly to where Cailan's party slept.

Leaping down from the hill and onto the road, Alistair rushed towards the horse. The filly was frightened, and she pulled back onto her hind legs. The man riding her cursed as he clutched onto the reins.

"Alistair! You bloody fool!" The horse settled as Alistair slowly replaced his sword to its resting place. His eyes narrowed at the rider, who removed his helmet and revealed himself to be Godfrey. His dark curls were plastered to his cheeks and forehead, and he panted as the horse did, exhaustion turning his features haggard. They'd been riding like that for some time. "I need to see Cailan. Now."

The solemnity in Godfrey's voice curled a fist around Alistair's heart. He didn't want to ask the question that was already poised on his lips. "W-why? What is the matter?" As much as he regretted the inquiry, he certainly did not wish to hear the answer he was given.

"Isobel is in trouble."

--

Days later, Isobel opened her eyes. It was a small, personal victory.

After so many hours of sleep, of hideous dreams and wandering around inside her own head, she was surprised to find that she was alone. Again. She was also surprised to find that the pain was gone from her jaw. Parting her lips to take a deep breath, she nearly choked on her tongue, which had become thick and nearly immovable.

It was when she moved a hand to touch her former wounds that she was reminded of her situation. A bright pain shot up her hands and into her wrists. They were bound, and each finger throbbed in a different way. All broken. Sudden fear tore through her. Her hands - she needed her hands. If she was to ever hold a sword again, they would need to be fixed. While she was here, they would not receive such attention.

But they'd healed her… mostly. Her shoulders ground together as she tried to shift her hands in the iron cuffs, but they did not hurt. The whipping was nothing but a sharp, excruciating memory. At the hands of such skilled healers, there was a chance she would not even scar. Why would they heal her? The answer was one easily grasped. They needed information. They needed her to tell them where to find Cailan, his weaknesses, his plans. They couldn't have her die on them, not when she was such a valuable source of information.

They'd repeat their torture as long as they had to. They'd break her. She wasn't strong enough to go through that so many times. But she couldn't tell them what she knew. She couldn't betray Cailan like that. Not only was it treason, as he was the rightful king, but her heart kept those secrets locked up, far away from her lips.

A shiver wracked her entire body, more from her own thoughts than the chill of the cell.

The silence was astounding. Knowing only the common facts about Fort Drakon, she had no idea where she was. Cells lined the walls on either side of her, but no one was moving. Perhaps they'd all been asleep as she had. Maybe some of her own men were here. With newfound energy, Isobel shifted onto her knees to get a better look at the cell beside her own. "Godfrey?" she called out. "Godfrey, are you here?"

There was a shifting sound in the cell, but no reply. Across from her, another figure shifted. No answer. "Godfrey?" Her voice was small, and it was nearly swallowed up by the quiet.

The only sound that came back to her ears was that of a heavy lock being moved aside. A sharp creak followed by the almost deafening dragging of metal against stone filled her ears. The other prisoners replied with quiet moans and more shifting in the dark. The lack of direct light kept her from seeing details of the man's face and person. He was nothing more than a shadowed figure standing in the doorway until he spoke.

"Your Godfrey is dead."

"Howe."

The man chuckled, shutting the heavy door behind him and not bothering to set the lock. "I believe congratulations are in order." He looked down at Isobel. Though half of her face was distorted by the dark red hair hanging in her eyes, he could see a cloud of revulsion form over her features. It was filled with animosity; hate. And rightly so. He held no misgivings of how he'd ruined her life. She should be thankful, though. If he hadn't had her family murdered, she'd have never become a Grey Warden and never had the opportunity to consort with the king. "Your men did not last half as long as you."

She couldn't find her words no matter how she searched for them. After all these months and countless hours spent contemplating what she'd say to him when they next crossed paths, she found nothing, neither word nor syllable. She couldn't even muster a proper glare.

Instead, she spat at him - a dark mark on his pretty scarlet tunic. A crack filled the air as he backhanded her with a force she hadn't expected. "Your nerve does you no credit, Warden." His tone was venomous. He leaned forward, yanking her chin towards him with an indelicate hand. She narrowed her eyes up at him, but he did not move. "All that Cousland pride. It's useless, really. Your father was full of it, and look what it got him."

"Better Cousland pride than Howe cowardice."

He lifted his other hand to slap her again, but thought better of it. His hand hovered in midair, a heavy threat. She didn't move. She didn't cower. Even after the whipping and the beating and the broken fingers, she was still resolute. Even with so much hate for her and her blood, he could not help but admire the ridiculous trait.

After receiving word from the torturer, he'd spent many hours thinking of how to break her. Merely the physical would not work. She had strength that he'd only encountered a handful for times before. The deaths of her mother and father, her grief over losing her home - these things were healing wounds. Months had passed since that night, and anger was the only emotion she felt over it any longer. There was only one path worth taking.

"What have you to fight for?" he asked her. "You have nothing."

Isobel tore her chin away from Howe's grasp. "I have enough." She stared up at him, trying as best she could to smother the nausea that ran over her in waves. It was fear, and she hated it. While Howe was not the strongest man in Ferelden, he had power. He certainly had more say than she did in this cell. And his hands weren't bound behind his back. "I have more to fight for than you even know."

"See, that's where you're wrong," Howe murmured quietly, a vicious smile curling on his thin lips. "I do know. Word has it that you have grown close to that brat Cailan."

Isobel clenched her jaw to keep from saying anything. Any visible reaction would only prove that he was correct. How did he know? Who had told him? Everyone at the camp seemed either in favor of their friendship or oblivious to it. Except…

"Chella has been a _very_ valuable source of information." Howe straightened his back and turned towards the door. He paced forward a few steps then turned. He knew exactly what he was doing. Give the young woman enough time for her thoughts to fester and betray each other. When he looked to Isobel, he saw that she was watching him like a bird of prey, eyes narrowed, waiting for his next words. "He, too, gave a disappointing show. Broken sooner than even that little elf. I cannot remember her name."

When her eyes began to burn, Isobel quickly looked away from Howe. The man felt a blooming satisfaction in his chest. So this was the right plan of action after all. He was immensely pleased with himself. "You're lying."

"Why would I lie to you, child?"

Her head snapped in his direction. While he was glad to see her eyes filled with tears, he felt a sharp pain in the center of that blooming pride at the blatant hate in them. "There is no way. He should still be on his way to Lake Calenhad." Her breath caught in her throat, and she cursed herself silently. Damn her tongue. "Your men would not have the time to bring him back to Denerim."

How wrong she was, and yet she didn't realize it. He had received news that morning of someone spotting the ghost of the king riding with his men just hours before. They were on their way to Denerim, no doubt anxious to seek revenge for their untimely deaths. Gossip spread like wildfire, and before long citizens swarmed the arl of Denerim's estate with questions and shouts. For as much as they respected Loghain for his valiant efforts as King Maric's right hand, they loved their king.

Of course, holed up within Fort Drakon, safe from the king's paltry number of men, Isobel was without word. He could very well be dead. The longer they waited in silence for either of them to speak, the more she began to believe that he spoke the truth.

Loghain had left the king to die without so much as a blink of the eye. What would Howe have against doing the same? He had no connection to the young man, nothing to foster guilt within himself.

"I have a token." Howe dug his index and middle finger into the pocket at his waist. "I can hardly deny a man's dying wish, no matter that I had some hand in it." Isobel's eyes widened as she watched him draw a long, pale blue ribbon from the pocket. Without so much as another thought, he let it fall from his grasp and land on the cold stones before her knees. "Enjoy your day of leisure. You will not have such a luxury tomorrow."

When he was gone, the door closed and the lock replaced, his menacing presence no longer inhabiting the hall, Isobel's head sunk downwards. The lump of grief in her chest made it difficult to draw even breaths, and she found herself gasping for air as she struggled to remove the cuffs at her wrists. The pain was the last thing on her mind as she rattled and shook the iron shackles. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she stared down at the ribbon. She wanted nothing more than to pick it up. The shackles did not award her the pleasure.

Frustration and heartache overtook her, and her thrashing ceased. He couldn't be dead. He'd survived the battle at Ostagar and their battles since only to be taken down by _Howe_? Why this man was so set on destroying everything she held dear, she hadn't the slightest idea. He was going to break her.

She could feel herself slowly falling away.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N:** Embarrassment doesn't even begin to cover it. For anyone who has been reading this story, I apologize. Truly. I didn't expect to hit such a massive block with this story, especially considering it's one of my favorites. And I especially didn't want to disappoint anyone who was keeping up with it. That said, I suppose an explanation is in order, yes?

In a way, the block was both a blessing and a curse. I was quite sure of how I wanted to end this, but I didn't exactly know how I would go about doing so. After much - I mean it, _much_ - consideration, I believe I've figured out, which means I can return to this as I originally intended. I totally understand if you hate me and never want to read another word of "The Beacon" ever ever ever again because it took me so damn long, but I hope any returning readers enjoy it.

* * *

  
Loghain did not meet the former king at the gates of Denerim.

Instead, he sent Arl Howe, who donned his best relieved smile as he watched the march of horses on its way toward him. The city hummed with delight as they crowded him, pushed back by the city guards in order to "make room for royal blood." Howe could hardly believe this turn of events. First that damned soldier escaped, and now the king was back and his people were eager to welcome him? Even after Loghain publicly denounced him, and more than once?

Still, Howe's gentility kept his smile from faltering as Cailan's shining golden armor came into clear sight. He'd have to put on a show of his allegiance. If Loghain wouldn't save his neck, the king would. He had no doubt of that. Everyone needs allies, no matter how numerous or few they already were.

When the king was close enough for him to make out his face, the crowd was surprised to see that he was indeed Cailan and not some bodiless specter come from the grave. But something about him was changed. He wasn't smiling. His jaw was clenched, lips slightly pursed.

He couldn't know…

The thought sent ice running through Howe's veins. Of course he didn't know. The former king had been traveling deep in the forest. No scout, no matter how skilled, could have found him. This pitiable self-reassurance brought Howe's shoulders back in practiced pomp. Cailan had been through much in the past months from what he'd heard. The battle at Ostagar would dampen even the brightest of spirits. Having been then kicked from the throne and down into who knew how many hordes of darkspawn, fortitude would be crushed.

By the time Cailan's party made its way into the city, the crowd was whipped into a near-frenzy. Cheers and shouts filled Howe's ears, making him cringe, his cordial smile suddenly irresolute. Their king - for they still considered him king - was changed, but not so changed as to be unrecognizable. If anything, the maidens in the crowd seemed even more excitable.

"Welcome again to Denerim, Your Highness." Howe's voice lilted and stirred as Cailan drew closer. At this short distance, he could easily point out the difference in the former king. The difference was in his eyes. Merciful and joyous blue had turned to ice. Or was that look reserved especially for him?

"Save your conviviality for someone who believes you," was the golden-haired royal's only response. His words were whispered and colored with an emotion Howe was exceedingly familiar with. Anger. "You know why I am here."

Howe fought the urge to cringe at the sharp pain that stabbed through his gut. So he did know. How, in Andraste's name, did news reach him? It should have been an impossibility. Then again, his survival at Ostagar was once described to him as impossible, as well. The tension that seemingly tugged at every muscle in Howe's body only allowed him a single gesture. A nod.

The streets of Denerim were filled with citizens. Cailan did his best to swallow his own emotions in order to gift them with a smile and a wave. They praised him heavily, while he felt none of the warmth he once did on the inside. Once, any attention showered upon him was met by delight. Now it was met with that detached grin, the limp wave. He couldn't focus. His head was spinning in worried circles.

When they finally reached Howe's estate, Cailan climbed down from his mount, thrusting any hands offering help away.

The interior of Howe's estate was decorated just as any other in the city - too much room, too little furnishings. Nothing spoke of this place being a home, and, despite the warmth of fires in each hearth, it was cold. What had he expected? Howe was not the sort of man who would relish in making anyone comfortable besides himself. Even his children were forced to accept a house instead of a home, but they seemed to shoulder it without so much as a word of protest.

Cailan allowed himself be guided deeper into the estate. He passed servants who stood, rapt and ignoring their work. He passed Howe's boy, whatever his name was. Everyone watched him as if they'd seen a ghost. So some people still believed he was dead. He found his mind reeling at the prospect. How had their opinion of him changed? He'd once been seen as a shadow of his father, ascended to the throne despite his foolish inability to rule. But now… what was he? A prophet of the Maker?

Alistair followed Cailan as was requested of him. He'd rather have been buried in snow back at Haven wearing nothing but his small clothes than be there, but he could not deny a request. Not from the king. Each winding hall passed as easily as the last, leading them into a larger room on the second floor of the estate. It was the library of the manor, and it was suffocating. He could tell that Cailan was uncomfortable in the way he shifted on his feet, but this was something more than just the temperature of the room.

"Tell me what I want to know, Howe," Cailan said in a near growl. He wasn't interested in being led around like a prized horse. It was quite evident by his stilted tone that he did not wish to be here, a sentiment that Alistair echoed silently within the confines of his own mind.

Tugging at the collar of his armor, Alistair sat as far away from the two others as possible. Howe disgusted him just as Cailan discouraged him. After all that Isobel told him, of Howe's betrayal of her parents, how much blood was on his hands - he could hardly look at him without feeling a hunk of lead in his gut. But, for some reason, he could not tear his eyes away from him as he waited for the old man to speak.

He couldn't help but feel an encroaching dread as Howe's expression sobered. It was bad. He knew it was bad; he could _feel_ it.

"Isobel is dead."

Alistair was on his feet before Cailan had enough time to even process the man's words. Howe gurgled, choking, as he was lifted from his chair by the collar of his shirt. He struggled at first. His arms flailed and legs kicked, and Alistair nearly dropped him. Alistair could hardly feel himself move; it was as if his body had disconnected from his senses, ushering him forward like a madman. While his movements were quicker than anything they'd ever seen, to him they felt sluggish, and he couldn't stop them.

"You _bastard_," he hissed, thrusting Howe back even more. The man gave a yelp of pain as the crown of his head hit the wall. "It was you, wasn't it?" Alistair's nostrils flared. His lips turned downwards in a sneer. Howe had often felt rage, often caused it, but never had he seen it so clearly written on someone's face. It terrified him. "It was you!"

Behind him, Cailan slumped down onto a chair. His face paled of all color. His shaking hands brushed through his hair, eyes narrowed and filled with a sudden, unmistakable fear, concentrated entirely on grasping such a foreign concept. She couldn't be dead. Not her. She was strong. She was unbreakable. No amount of simple torturing could kill her.

"It wasn't me!" Howe pleaded, his hands grasping clumsily at Alistair's, jerking in the Warden's grip.

He shrunk away from the Warden as he let out a roar of frustration and shoved him into the wall again. The impact sent a white flame down his spine and blinded him for all of a heartbeat. His body willed him to react - to grab a sword and shove it into this fool's belly. But he had orders, he had a heading. If this meeting ended in Alistair's death there would be much payment at Loghain's hands. "Who else!?"

"Loghain!"

Cailan's head jerked into attention. "Why would he do that?" he asked. His voice was small; tremulous. It stumbled on his lips. His own thoughts were faltering as he willed himself to keep the tears from his eyes, the dread and regret and blame from his guts. If he'd have been here… if he'd have traveled with her…

"He wanted to hit you where it would hurt the worst," Howe explained, his hands opening and closing around Alistair's wrists as he attempted to free himself. Alistair allowed his feet to touch the ground, but he did not let go of his neck. Howe gave a short gasp of relief before coughing, his throat aching in objection. "There was a bard. Chella. She told him everything of your relationship with the Warden."

Cailan could feel his blood turn to ice water in his veins.

"She warned me," the King murmured, his voice half-lost to disbelief. He looked away from Howe, his blue eyes focusing on nothing. His fingers twitched, curling and uncurling, as he measured each breath; each inhalation, each shuddering sigh of an exhale. He could hear her. He could sense her eyes burning into him in the forests beneath Haven. She'd fought him, shown the true flame in her being. But he hadn't conceded. He hadn't budged. His own foolish pride led him to believe the girl with her charming words. A bard. A damned bard.

He was his father's son. That was an unshakeable fact now solidified by his own ridiculous fancies. How had he managed to stumble into this? How had this happened? After all the warnings, all the teasing directed towards him by those who knew, all the promises he'd made to himself. Be the man your father could have been. Be solid, and be true. All of those words lay broken in his clammy palms. He was Maric's son, yet he wasn't half the man his father was.

"Alistair," Cailan murmured, looking to him without so much as a shade of expression on his features, "We should go. I…" His lips were dry; his mouth, drier. "I have to speak to Loghain."

Howe tensed in Alistair's grip. "I fear that is not possible, Your Highness," he pressed, tearing the Warden's hands from his neck. When Alistair took a step back, his hands falling to his side and his eyes narrowed in a thinly veiled glare, Howe turned to Cailan. "Loghain has business to attend to. That is why I met you at the gates instead."

"I don't care if he has business," Cailan snapped at him, though his voice was growing increasingly brittle. "I am the King. He will see me."

"I can arrange a meeting for the two of you at first light tomorrow, Your Majesty."

The King's nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Instead, he stood from the seat and began to move towards the door. When he reached the exit, Cailan's eyes met Howe's over his golden-plated shoulder.

Howe was often described as emotionless - the very picture of a noble. Calm, chilly, disconnected. He was not riddled with those pesky things called emotions and was often driven to prove so. Still, despite how much he hated the young _former_ King and the Cousland welp, he felt his stomach turn at the look in Cailan's eyes. Anger and grief colored the darker facets of clear blue.

He was old enough to remember every detail he'd ever known about Cailan. He'd met him countless times before in Denerim, at the Castle. The golden gilded youth, bright as the blazing sun in both coloring and demeanor, never frowned. He smiled and laughed and brought joy to whomever faced him. This bright light within him never faded. It merely flickered. But as he turned away from Howe and Alistair from where they both stood, staring, they could both see that same flame poised and ready to be doused.

"Very well."

--

Alistair didn't know what to do. His own head was torn between pain and worry, his eyes focused on the intricate designs on the back of Cailan's armor as they made their way back to camp. He could see Cailan swaying silently on the mount, as if there was a weight heavier on his shoulders than what was physically present.

Did he comfort him? Did he speak a few words? He'd never been terribly good with words, even neglecting that the very idea of Isobel actually being _dead_ -

His fingers tightened around the reins of his own, slightly smaller horse. _No_, Alistair thought to himself, watching nothing in particular as their party made its way forward.

_She's not dead. Torture wouldn't break her. She can't be. She's already been through so much_.

_Indeed she has,_ another, louder, sharper part of his mind interrupted, _which would make her more susceptible, wouldn't it?_

_But she's a warrior -_

_She is as delicate as any other woman. _

Every thought came to a complete halt as his mount came to a stuttering halt. Eyes widening by the surprise, Alistair glanced around, eager to see what was happening. Why were they stopping? Was Cailan alright? Indeed, the King was fine, though he, too, was looking around, taken aback by the scout's sudden call for them to cease any movement.

No matter how many times Alistair turned over in his mind how he'd react to hearing that voice again, his face drained of color when it reached his ears.

"Cailan," the figure gasped, clearly out of breath. And tainted with an Orlesian accent. "Cailan, you must stop!"

"Get her out of my _sight_," the King growled.

Chella stared up at him from her place before his mount. The horse felt Cailan's body tense around him and took a step forward, nervously nudging at the ground beneath its feet. Her full cheeks were flushed; her eyes wide with relief. "You are lucky I don't cut you down where you stand for your betrayal."

The bard shook her head, sweat-streaked locks curling around her face. "No, you do not understand," she took a step forward, but the fury in Cailan's eyes had her standing down. "You have to listen to me, Cailan." There was something pleading in her voice. She was speaking to him in earnest. "Isobel is alive."

Cailan tugged at the reins and called for the scout to continue farther, the soldiers surrounding the horse beginning their trek forward. He didn't have words for her. No matter how badly he wished to believe her, to rejoice and to make his way to Denerim to retrieve the female Warden, he could not. To do so would be to acquiesce to his own naivety, and he refused to do so.

"Alistair," Chella begged, turning her attention from Cailan to the man sitting upon the horse behind him. "You have to believe me. Loghain told Howe to lie! They haven't broken her!" She set off into a desperate, stumbling gait as she kept up with Alistair. He could not help but watch her, his eyebrows peaked. What if she was right…? "She is still in Fort Drakon! If you turn back now, you can still save her!"

The two turned to Cailan as the King shouted for the procession to halt.

Taking that as an invitation to explain herself, Chella nearly ran to Cailan's side. "The moment Loghain had her, he all but tossed me away," she explained, her words barely making it out of her mouth in one, unbroken piece. "He did not follow through with our agreement. I need the coin he swore to hand over to me once the deal was finished."

Cailan stared down at her with an unwavering glare. He'd trusted her once, and she'd torn Isobel away from him. Why should he trust her twice? To have her steal the rest?

"Your Majesty…" Alistair's voice was soft, nearly goading. "Maybe we should listen to her."

"Give me an explanation, Orlesian."

Chella winced at the venom that surrounded Cailan's words, but when she looked back up to him, her eyes were bright, almost defiant. "I'll give you more than an explanation," she replied. "I'll give you a plan."


	19. Chapter 19

The morning came without not a single inclination towards what the day would hold. Over the city of Denerim, the sky was a beautiful mix of colors ranging from the lightest of lilacs to a warm, brilliant orange where the sun began to pierce the horizon. Everyone went about their business as usual, but there was a singular word on the lips of every citizen as they did so. King. Their king was alive. Not only was he _alive_, but he was going to be in town again today.

Loghain rose with the knowledge that he would be forced to meet with Cailan in only a few hours. While he was not anxious to meet with the once-King, he found himself resigned to the fact. His plan had not worked. That knowledge came to him soon after the Battle of Ostagar. But to think, after all this time, the King was still alive and still willing to fight? He would have to tell him everything; tell him how Isobel had fallen, how the entirety of Ferelden was eager to live beneath the Queen's rule.

Anora was anxious to speak with her husband for many reasons, especially after hearing the tales wound into her ear by her father. She felt tense, as if she was curled into a coil of anger and sadness and relief. After their years together, her love for Cailan dwindled as surely as her father warned her. The love she once felt was replaced by a fierce desire for duty, and she intended to remind him of his.

Howe felt ill at ease, yet confident in the same instance. What bother was it to him if the King returned? The Teyrn would smack him down as surely as he had those months before. And while Cailan met with Loghain, he would be within the thick walls of Fort Drakon. Today, Isobel would break, and she would die. He put on his emerald tunic with a smile.

Back at the camp. Godfrey was readying the soldiers. Lines of armored men stood as straight as could be, pulled into such a regal stance with the hope of saving the very woman who'd so long bolstered their confidence. Arryn stood near the head of the group, and the two shared a small smile that spoke volumes of their reunion. She glanced away, cheeks flushed, as he returned to his duties.

Alistair and Chella sat near the fire. He chewed absently on his bottom lip, eyes narrowed at the map settled before them on the ground. She drew a slender finger through the hallways, each word pronounced with a silent apology, her eyes wide and desiring of some shade of forgiveness. He believed her as fiercely as she hoped for clemency. He needed to believe her words. He needed to fill himself with the hope that he could help Isobel.

Cailan sat in his tent, his face in his cool palms. He dare not hope. Such hope often led him to foolishness, and it was his own stupidity that brought them here. Where it started with his ridiculous trust in Loghain, it progressed to something far larger with far more gravity in his heart. He silently swore to himself over and over that he wouldn't compromise the plans with his own optimism.

And deep within the bowels of Fort Drakon, the door to Isobel's cell was opened. The pale orange glow of a lamp fell upon her. She did not stir. Her body hardly trembled from the cold, hardly rose and fell from each breath she took. Even when the shackles around her wrists were unlocked and they fell to the floor, steel upon stone echoing throughout the long chamber, she did not fight it.

When Cailan emerged from his tent, he was met with a sight he never thought he would see. His men were not milling around camp. They were not sharing jokes or teasing the cook over the meal. Each stood with a renewed conviction - shoulders back, chins tilted upwards. This was an army. A small army, but an army none the less. They were ready to fight for him, willing - _eager_, even - to sacrifice themselves if it meant finding Isobel.

Alistair stood from his place near the fire, quickly moving over to him, his step decidedly light all things considered. "You should speak to them," he said once he was in earshot. "I hear you're quite good with speeches."

"Am I?" Cailan asked without a flicker of a smile. "We shall see, I suppose." He then cleared his throat, watching as Alistair fell into line with the other soldiers. His eyes met with each of the men; searching blue meeting brown, green, gray, male, female. Something within him refused to quiet, its voice loud and only increasing in pitch, nearly screaming for him not to trust Chella. But if Alistair believed it was the best option, he would go through with it.

"The first lesson my father taught me," the King began, hands clasped behind his back, "was to never conceal your weaknesses. If you hide them, they will only grow, as will your insecurity." He was back on Mother Ailis' lap. He was twelve, listening to stories of his father before running off to sit in his lap and oversee his business. Maric's words intermingled with his. His father's warm timbre crept into his voice. "The second lesson I learned was to accept your strengths for what they are. Such recognition does not lead to arrogance, but confidence."

Everyone gathered in the camp stood rapt, their eyes unmoving from the features of their King. The sunlight reflected from his golden armor, his equally golden hair. The older soldiers in the group did not see Cailan. They saw his father; a shining beacon of everything Ferelden stood for. The young saw the son of Maric the Savior, grandson of the Rebel Queen, ancestor of Calenhad the Great.

"Loghain Mac Tir does not see us as a threat," he continued, leaving the cluster of leaves before his tent to pace, his strides fluid and sure, as if he'd delivered a thousand speeches like this before. "He has only heard stories of the defeat the scourge of Redcliffe suffered at our hands, of the retrieval of Andraste's ashes, passed between so many lips it loses its true splendor. And word has not yet reached him of our alliance with King Aeducan, leaving him deaf to the tales of our victory over the darkspawn of the Deep Roads, as well."

"He knows of our weaknesses, for we accept them." Cailan's voice slowly began to rise, his cheeks filling with color as he watched his men shift beneath their own unshakeable loyalty. "We are few in numbers. We have fought long, hard battles, and we are tired. We have lost one of our own - a model of strength that we so often looked towards in moments of need."

Alistair's heart lurched in his chest when he heard the unspoken heartache in Cailan's admission, casting aside his own feelings in lieu of empathy.

"But he does not know our strengths as we do. He does not accept them."

Cailan's pacing paused, and his gaze swept over those gathered. Time seemed to slow. Everyone seemed to forget how to breathe in that one, dwindling moment. "We will find Lady Cousland. We will show Loghain Mac Tir that no matter how slim our numbers, our hearts beat harder than those in his ghost army!"

Silence surrounded him for the span of two heartbeats before a shout arose near the back of the crowd. This shout was followed by another, much louder one, which only drew more and more from the mouths of his men. All the while, Cailan merely stood there, so still it was as if he'd been rooted into the ground. But while he was still, his heart was racing, bounding against his chest, so full he felt it would burst.

Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to release them. Instead, he blinked them back and moved forward, eager to be swallowed up by his men. His thoughts strayed to Isobel as he disappeared into the crowd. He wished she could've seen that, heard it.

He wondered if she would've been proud of him.

--

Not once, but twice did Cailan grasp the heart and minds of those he spoke to on that day. Instead of meeting with Loghain as he'd promised, Cailan, flanked by three of his men, made his way directly to Howe's estate. No one dared deny the king, not when his sword was unsheathed. The master of the house was gone, rendering any of the servants without the needed clout to stop him from entering. Instead, they were forced to watch him storm up to the third floor and out onto the balcony.

There, the son of King Maric shouted in a voice he did not know he possessed. His words were not his own as his speech rang down into the growing crowd beneath the estate. They filled the streets, their voices raised to almost drown his out. He spoke of Loghain's betrayal, of the slaughter of the Warden's, of Redcliffe, of Haven, of the Deep Roads. His discourse was a ribbon of gold that wound its way through the crowd. And, as Loghain once told him, the people of Ferelden are as fickle as anything. Their hearts were easily won.

But he was not there to win their hearts. He was there to cause a distraction - a large one. While he spoke to the people, Alistair and Chella made their way towards Fort Drakon. Godfrey, Arryn, and the rest of Cailan's men followed them, readily awaiting any orders from their current leader. The prison was said to be nigh impregnable. Those that went in seldom returned, and if they did, it was due to the ruler's clemency and not an escape. Given the circumstances, the idea of failure was one they were all willing to refute.

Chella knew where they were bringing Isobel. She would be in a central chamber, closed off on all sides with only one large set of doors accessible without relying on the labyrinthine hallways. They were not expecting a flawless victory. Fort Drakon was filled to the brim with guards, and they would not be able to avoid casualties. Priorities were drawn. The potential for defeat only drove them to hold their swords higher, to fill themselves with a previously unknown courage.

The front doors to the prison yielded as easily as expected. They were met with two guards, yet neither of them survived for longer than a few moments.

Fighting. Alistair felt like it'd been ages since he'd buried his sword into a man up to the hilt. Desperation became blood lust in his palms, and he found himself separated from the crowd, followed by a small cluster of soldiers as they fought their way through. He could hear cries coming from every direction - from his own men, from the guards, both in pain and in shrieking relief.

They waded through the rooms, met with seemingly impossible numbers and having them crumble like dried leaves beneath their boots. Godfrey kept close to Arryn, his sword sheathing itself into anyone who dare attempt to cut her down. Chella fought, as well. She wielded her dual daggers like nothing he'd ever seen. Her pale skin was flecked with blood that was not her own, her eyes bright as Alistair shouted for the men to regroup in anticipation of another wave.

"They should be through the next door!" Chella shouted to Alistair after they'd combed through another large chamber. Their numbers were dwindling, but their resolve was unshakeable. The realization that they were so close only caused these feelings of hope to grow.

"Godfrey! William! Help me force this open; they've barred it shut!"

And force it open they did. Seven soldiers backed them as they entered the central chamber of the prison. The room stank of blood - old and, Alistair noted with a twist in his gut, new. They'd given the bastard enough time to ready himself before the fight reached them. Howe stood before a table, his back turned to Alistair. With his line of sight broken, he could not see Isobel. He could not see her, nor could he hear her.

Beside Howe stood a mage, his wizened visage twisted in a scowl. Two younger guards stood behind him, across from another three, one of which was an archer. But this would not do. They hadn't come this far just to be defeated.

"I will not let you take this pleasure away from me, Warden." Alistair felt a chill run down his spine as Howe's voice filled the room. Every inch was coated in the grime of it, from the stone floors to the vaulted ceiling. "I have long waited for this."

When he stepped aside and turned to face him, Alistair's gaze did not seek him out. They fell to Isobel, and his heart fell to the ground between his feet. He hardly recognized her body, all bent and bruised and bloodied, held apart by the shackles at her wrists and ankles when it was obvious she only wanted to curl into herself. He could see her limbs shaking against the metal restraints, fighting herself to see who Howe spoke to.

Even across the chamber, their eyes met. Her hair was in her eyes, a darker red than it had been due to its state of unwash, but she could still see him. She could see him, and he swore he read his name on her lips. Her features distorted as she gave a harsh sob of relief. The shackles rattled as her body convulsed, limbs quivering involuntarily.

Alistair's lips parted, but his words did not reach them.

"What?" Howe asked, hand going to the hilt of the sword belted to his hips. He unsheathed it with the thin ringing sound of metal along metal. "Let her go? I think not."

The soldiers at Howe's side shifted on their feet. They were eager to see this small army fall. Their own numbers did not match those of Alistair's party, but they were not fatigued either. After fighting their way through Fort Drakon, the others were bordering upon exhausted and hoping for some sort of reprieve. They needed to rest. They needed to get Isobel and get out of the prison.

Arryn stood behind Godfrey, her eyes settling upon the mage. He was much older than she was and undoubtedly more powerful - comprised entirely of harsh lines and silver hair. Howe was aligned with the current holder of Ferelden. Of course his mage was stronger than she was. That thought had her heart skittering in her chest, though she wrapped her slender fingers around her staff with quiet confidence in Alistair and the others.

"You are outnumbered." Alistair cursed himself silently for the way his voice wavered. "Remove yourself, and you will live."

"I intend to do so either way," Howe replied with a slither of a smile.

What followed was a battle evenly matched.

Howe's archer was taken down first in a shower of clashing swords and splintered arrows. One of Cailan's men gave a shriek of pain as his legs were rooted into the ground, his entire body stiffening as it was overcome by the mage's power and turned to stone. Arryn watched in horror as the mage emitted a wave of ice from his palms. Ice against stone shattered the soldier into a thousand pieces.

"Take out the mage!" she heard Alistair shout somewhere far off, his words nearly lost in the clashing of swords against shield. With a lift of her staff, the room was filled with a pale orange glow, and Alistair suddenly felt warm. His limbs felt stronger, his attacks rained down harder on the soldier before him, while the man's sword he hardly felt. "Do not worry about me! The mage!" But he was not ungrateful.

She was accustomed to death. She'd seen it, caused it. But to see a mage from her own Circle wipe out the very men she called friends…

The mage's eyes turned upon Godfrey. He was too busy parrying a blow from one of Howe's soldiers to notice. She cried out, averting the dark mage's attention for just long enough to carve a glyph into the stone beneath his feet. Before she had time to realize what she'd done, the mage impacted his staff onto the ground. When no fire or pestilence emerged, he glanced down at it before attempting another evocation. Nothing. Shame and annoyance riddled his features. Bested by an elf.

But Arryn did not have enough time to contemplate exactly what she'd done. Between maintaining the glyph and forcing out wave after wave of ice in an attempt to assist the soldiers, she hardly had the strength to keep herself safe. Godfrey stood before her, flanked by another of the king's men, and they fought diligently to keep no sword from touching her.

As the last of Howe's soldiers fell, Alistair turned his attention to the man himself. Arryn's spirit shield had long faded, and he had a nasty gash across his arm, rendering his shield useless, but in his eyes was that same terrifying light Howe had the pleasure of seeing up close just the day before.

For all of Howe's posturing, he was not a coward in the battlefield. His sword was just as steady as Alistair's as he lunged forward.

Most luck in a fight relies upon one's intent. Howe fought for his own survival, but Alistair fought for revenge, for the anger he felt swelling up in him, for the story he remembered in visceral detail of Isobel's parents, for aligning with Loghain despite everything he'd done. And it was this that drove him forward, his sword tearing into Howe's as Isobel looked on.

Each parried blow rang out in the room, punctuated by a grunt or a curse in equal measure. Had this not been such a personal fight, Howe could have been easily overwhelmed. Chella was still on her feet, though she was wounded quite badly. Godfrey tended to the fallen as Arryn healed those she could. This fight was not one for them all. Alistair needed this.

For all his training and all his long years of experience, Howe's bones were still old. No matter how fiercely he swore he'd deny this brat the pleasure of awarding him with death, he found himself on his knees before him.

Alistair looked to Isobel to see her lying there, green eyes boring into his own. Her cheeks were streaked with grime washed away in ridges by her tears, but he could see her nod. The gesture was slight and wordless. It was all he needed. Howe didn't deserve words, no matter how easily they flowed forth from his own lips. Instead, Alistair stepped to the side, eyes focused on the gleaming white skin of the man's neck, and brought down his sword in a wide arc.

Isobel gave a quiet cry at the sound, and Alistair's attention shifted. He nearly leapt over Howe's body to her side, his heart surging with relief in his chest. "Maker's breath," he sighed, his hands curling carefully around the back of her neck. She whimpered at the touch, nearly shrinking away from him, and the sight nearly broke him. Her skin was cold and clammy, and something felt incredibly wrong. It was as if he could feel her slipping out of his hands. Howe's plans for today were obvious. She was too close to the end to push her any farther. "We're going to get you out of here."

He shouted for Arryn. The mage tore immediately from her duties and hurried over to them. "Do something," he begged her, "Please."

So she did. The elf's tiny hands glowed faintly as she ran them over the length of Isobel's limbs, careful enough not to hurt her, but formidable enough to keep the Warden from shifting too much beneath her spell. "This is not permanent," Arryn said quietly as Alistair hurriedly shifted through Howe's pockets to find the key to the shackles. "We have to get her back to camp, and we have to hurry."

Isobel gave a quiet, shuddering sigh when she felt the restraints fall away from her wrists and then her ankles. Any of her aches and pains were numbed from the mage's casting. She uttered no sound of protest when she felt herself being lifted from the table. Part of her expected to be thrust back down onto the stones, but she was not. She was surrounded by warmth, and she curled instinctively into it, her head buried into the crook of Alistair's neck and her fingers curled around the back of his neck.

Those remaining took his orders and marched forward. The citizens of Denerim were too busy crowding Howe's estate to notice the four soldiers, the rogue, and the mage. They were too busy to look to Fort Drakon. The small party was met with no hostiles, no blowback from their own attack upon the notorious prison. Instead, they made their way back to camp; silent, exhausted.

And everyone ignored the glistening in his eyes.


	20. Chapter 20

When Cailan returned to camp, the first name to pass his lips belonged to the mage.

"Where's Arryn?" he asked, his shaking hands discarding his armor as he made his way through the tents. His eyes jerked from person to person as he looked for an answer. Word of Isobel's injuries reached his ears the moment he stepped out of Arl Howe's estate. She suffered from broken bones and pneumonia. These were paired with any number of other injuries. Putting her into the capable hands of the party's mage was a consensus reached without hesitation.

So absorbed in getting to her as quickly as possible was Cailan that he neglected to see Alistair sitting near the fire. He didn't have time to thank him. He didn't have time to ask about Chella. He needed to get to Isobel. He needed to see her, to be assured that she was alive.

Godfrey conducted the king to Isobel's tent without a word. The elf glanced up from her charge when she heard a commotion outside of the tent, placing her fingers delicately along Isobel's forearm. "Do not move," she whispered, though the warrior lying there fidgeted in protestation. When she saw Cailan's considerable form fill the entrance of the tent, Arryn stood, her hand leaving Isobel's arm in order to give him a swift bow. "Your Majesty."

But Cailan did not hear her. Nay, he did not even realize she stood there. Instead, his sights were filled with another vision entirely. That familiar red head was rested upon a pillow, tilted towards him, but not nearly enough to see him approach. At first, every fiber of his being denied the fact that this was her. This was some cruel trick. Isobel was dead; who was this woman lying there?

"Cailan?"

Every hesitation was shattered at the sound of her voice. Arryn stepped out of the way as the king rushed forward, dropping onto his knees on the ground beside the cot. He hardly heard the mage's murmured pleas for him to be gentle with her. "Isobel." Her name tasted almost sweet on his lips as he stared down at her. His heart sang when her eyes met his, green piercing into blue. She lifted a heavy hand and rested it on his arm, and the contact tore the tears from his eyes. "Isobel," he repeated, his own fingers seeking to cradle her cheek.

She leaned into his touch, just as she had all those weeks ago, and he wondered for a moment if he had died. Surely that was the only way he could be reunited with her. But her brow creased and her lips curled unhappily at their corners. "Don't," she whispered. Maker, she sounded so much like the real Isobel. Could this actually be her and not some specter sent to torment him?

"Don't what?" he asked, his thumb trailing carefully along her cheekbone.

Her eyes filled with tears, and when she spoke, her words wavered, "Don't cry." Her quiet wish only led to more hot tears trailing down his cheeks, some to match her own. "Please," she pleaded feebly, her fingers teasing the thin fabric of his sleeve. "Smile." When he did not yield, she took as deep a breath as she could manage. "Cailan, _please_."

Cailan shook his head, unable to accept such a challenge for fear of his own heart breaking out of sheer respite. Her trembling fingers moved up his arm until they reached the ends of his golden hair. They curled through them for a moment as she stared up at him, streaks gleaming down the sides of her face. Before he was able to beg of her the same, he felt a subtle tug on his hair, pulling him closer to her.

Isobel shifted on the cot, wincing as her other arm fell down across her ribs. But she had to fight the pain. She couldn't let it win, not when her heart was pounding in the center of her chest, racing against her thoughts, begging for some reprieve. "I need-" she began, her hand sliding to his shoulder to guide him closer to her. "I need to - to feel you."

"I don't want to hurt you."

It was the look in Isobel's eyes that drove him to ignore the mage's instructions. She seemed so small, so distant from what he'd once seen in those eyes. Her fire was flickering, threatening to go out. He couldn't allow that. So instead, he let her borrow his own. Cailan slid his arm beneath her shoulders, his hand splaying around the back of her head as he cradled her. He was careful, but he knew she had to be hurting. He lent her his strength, and she enveloped him in a feeling he thought he'd never feel again.

He did not know how long he held her, but, eventually, he could feel her steady, even breaths against his throat. Arryn nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him open the flap leading into the tent, but she was more than happy to take over for him and return to her task of keeping Isobel alive, of healing her.

Cailan was not sure what he felt as he made his way toward the fire in the center of the camp. It was hardly simple relief. His heart trembled with both rage and fear while his skin burned as his mind instinctually recalled their night in the woods together. To think one woman would conjure so many conflicting emotions within him.

When he came of age, his father pulled him aside. He'd often been regaled with stories of his father's youth; his war against the Orlesians, his friendship with the ever-loyal Loghain Mac Tir. Such stories inevitably led to a fleeting mention of Katriel. Her betrayal was not glossed over as it often is with heroes. This he understood; she was not his mother, therefore she was a lesser being in the eye of legend. In the eyes of his father, however, he wondered if they would be more evenly matched.

But now he understood. Or, at least, he felt that he did. Chella was beautiful; foreign and enticing. He could remember someone likening similar features to Katriel. Isobel drew a paltry few traits from the remarkable Rowan Guerrin, but they were numerous enough to make him feel like a complete and utter fool.

The camp still seemed so much emptier, and Cailan grimaced as he set himself down by the fire. He had to stop thinking like this. Aligning Isobel with his mother was a folly of the highest order. The comparison of Chella to Katriel to close enough to wound his pride severely, but he was still married to Anora, as she'd been quick to remind him on their meeting just a few scant hours before.

"Thank you."

The words left his lips before he even realized who they were aimed towards. Alistair looked up from the fire, brows knitted in question. "Whatever for?" he asked, genuinely at a lost for a short moment. When it dawned upon him, he shifted on the ground, clasping his hands in front of his bent knees. "Ah, yes, that. It's… uh, not a problem."

"Have you visited Isobel?" Cailan bit down on the soft inside of his lip as he glanced away from the Warden and into the fire. He didn't want to hear about Alistair's daring rescue into the bowels of Fort Drakon. He wanted to be there. He wanted to dig his sword into Howe's chest and lift Isobel into his arms. He wanted his face to be the first thing she saw after regaining consciousness. But none of that came to pass. His skills were required elsewhere in order for the rescue to be successful. Knowing that _should _have been enough.

Alistair passed his tongue along his bottom lip in thought. "I haven't," he said finally, "When I left her with Arryn, she was in too bad a shape for me to stick around. I suppose those rules don't pertain to a king."

The comment was more acidic than he intended, but he wasn't about to apologize. He had to say it. He had to get it out in the air. His annoyance was only supplemented by the feeling of helplessness that accompanied it, and he no matter how long he sat in front of this fire, he never felt relief.

Without another word, Cailan stood. This wouldn't do. He was clearly not as welcome near the campfire as he'd once been, not by Alistair. The Warden glanced up from the flames as the golden form retreated into the woods, trailed after some time by one of the guards, more out of necessity than curiosity.

Some minutes later, another approached the fire. This figure cast a slight shadow, and Alistair looked towards it to find his eyes settling upon Arryn. The elf crouched down, bent at the knees in order to get closer to the fire. In her hand was a vial of salve, one she turned over in her palm to warm by the flames. He watched her with even eyes, watched her delicate hands, thankful beyond comprehension for their healing power.

"Isobel told me to thank you," she said without turning away from the fire. "Once her condition improves - and it will, I am sure - she'd like to see you." Pausing, the elf drew the vial away from the heat. She stood, hand smoothing over her robes.

"I… think it would be best."

She was gone before he could reply, finding her way back to the tent to administer the salve. So quickly did she depart, she didn't quite catch the smile that met his lips. The thought that even now, suffering from so many wounds, she would think of him...

Perhaps he did not need a crown after all.


	21. Chapter 21

By the time Queen Anora set eyes upon her husband, she could tell a great many things had changed. She was not foolish enough to suspect that any man could go through such trials and return unscathed, much less her husband, but seeing him like this was still shocking.

He was standing in Arl Eamon's study when she arrived, perfectly on time, as was expected of her. Even unpleasant reunions such as this one were met with the same unfaltering punctuality. There was a knot in her stomach that didn't feel unlike dread, and it twisted at her guts every time she thought about what would happen when she finally saw him. Despite all of her father's merciless politicking, most of which she did not agree with, he was still the King. An execution would only be a wave away.

_But Cailan is not so ruthless, Anora_, she had reminded herself as she peered into the mirror. The elven servant's fingers in her hair were not as welcome a distraction as usual, and she pressed that the young girl hurry with the braids so she might leave. _Perhaps not before, but such a betrayal would change him. And your father was at the helm of this attempt._

Regardless of her uncertainty, she knew it was futile to ignore Cailan's wishes. If she didn't find her way to Eamon's estate at the correct time, he would find her. So she put on one of her better gowns, pulled her hair back into her usual twin buns, and made her way to Eamon's estate without a moment's hesitation.

His shoulders. The first thing she noticed upon entering was his shoulders. Always a man of impressive size, due in part to both his heritage and extensive training, Cailan's shoulders seemed even wider now. As her eyes slipped downward, out of curiosity and curiosity alone, she saw that his arms were larger, his legs stronger. Even his hair had changed, gone from that dark golden blonde she knew to something lighter, almost flaxen.

She was not able to take note of the more major changes until he turned around. When he did so, snapping the book in his hands shut, her brow cinched in concentration. His skin was no longer as pale. Instead, his face and throat were tanned, and she imagined if she stood close enough, she could point out a freckle or two. Her eyes met his only to find that they, too, had changed. Clear, innocent blue made way to a hue that seemed almost darker, though she knew that was impossible.

All of these differences paled in comparison to one. His mouth was thinned into a severe line, and he did not even have the decency to smile at her as he always had. No matter how explosive the disagreement, how harsh the shared words, he always had a smile for her. He always had a smile for _anyone_, true, but there was one he reserved for her and she knew it.

_Why would he smile at you _now_ of all times?_ The question rang out in her mind, but she wasn't given the time to focus on answering.

"Good afternoon, Anora."

Maker, even his voice had changed.

The crease between her brows slackened as she gave him a slight incline of her head. When her eyes rose to meet his again, any of the surprise was gone, replaced by simply _nothing_. There was no thinly veiled contempt, no confusion, not even a forced lack of expression. There was nothing. When she finally found her voice, her chin tilted back just far enough for there to be pride in its angle. "Cailan."

He gave the book in his hands one more look over before setting the volume on the desk he stood beside. "I trust you are well," he said, though the words clearly struggled to remain cordial while leaving his lips.

His eyes were focused on the red leather cover of the book, his fingers running absently over the engraved writing. 'The Ferelden Rebellion' gleamed up at him. This was volume three of six, and it told of the Battle of West Hill. He knew the story well. In fact, merely thumbing through the pages brought him back to all those years he spent with Mother Ailis as his tutor. She knew these tales far better than any historian. He could remember sitting by her side, devouring each tale as if it was his last meal, just as he could remember each word that poured forth.

If his father could cope with such betrayal and recover to become the ruler that he so admired, he was capable of doing so himself.

When he glanced up from the volume, he saw that Anora was staring at him, her brows cinched once again. The defined crease dissipated into nothing a heartbeat after his eyes reached her face. He knew that look. She often wrinkled her brow in such a way when she was deep in thought, trying to figure something or someone out. This was the very first time she'd ever looked at him in such a way.

"I am," Anora replied. Her tone was measured, but not hesitant. Unsure of how to progress and unwilling to express her uncertainty, she said nothing else. She stood there, her hands laced before her, wearing the same distant look on her face.

Try as he might, Cailan could not detach himself as easily as she. He never was as apt at side-stepping his attachments in lieu of seriousness as Anora. He felt betrayed and _angry_, but at the same time, he had missed her. Before she was his Queen, he considered her his friend. He felt she cared for him enough to help him. Or, at least, he would have believed that to be true had he not been shown otherwise. The sentimentality of it all burned at the back of his throat, and he struggled to force it away, eventually succeeding for the time being.

"You want to know why you're here." The King made the comment mostly to himself, a musing spoken beneath his breath, but Anora nodded all the same, not moving an inch from her place. "I was hoping that we could talk about what's happened. Perhaps you could shed a little light upon the situation."

"You know enough, Cailan," she said. His eyes shot to hers, and she met them with the same unwavering blue stare. "What do you expect me to say? I wasn't involved, but my father was. You know that as well as I."

For a brief time, she'd hated him – her father. For a brief time, she'd also believed Cailan was dead, and for a brief time, she'd mourned him. When she received word he was alive, she hoped with every fiber of her being that he'd cut his losses and leave Ferelden. But she knew better. She still saw him as that idealistic man who'd often go to her to herald her with the latest news, as if she hadn't been the first to know, the man who she'd sometimes let take down her hair. And while she'd repress the urge to roll her eyes when he commented on how lovely the locks were, she was still flattered.

While knowing he was alive filled her at first with hope, the news soon filled her with dread. He was the son of Maric the Savior. His ability to rule stood in the tall shadow of his paternity. When coupled with his innate charm and ability to ensnare hearts, her father could not have chosen a more formidable enemy, no matter how diligently he clung to believing the opposite.

She knew Cailan was not fit to rule a small army of wooden figurines. That did not stop her from fearing for her father once the people realized what he'd done. Cailan was the golden King, and they loved him. Loghain's own accomplishments were written in history, yes, but they were tarnished after so many years spent lying between book covers, gathering dust along with all other former heroes.

"Why didn't you try to help me?"

An invisible fist tightened in Anora's chest, and for another moment, he could see a glimmer of something in her expression other than that constant, noble complacency. As before, it disappeared quickly. "I thought you were dead." She watched him as he took a non-threatening step in her direction. "What did you expect me to do? There were darkspawn to be dealt with."

Cailan nodded to himself, lips pursing as he tucked a bit of their flesh between his teeth. He wasn't looking at her anymore, his attention focused entirely on the objects that littered the desk at his side in a vain attempt to remain calm. "Darkspawn that could've been wiped out if my army wasn't _slaughtered_ on the field at Ostagar because of your father. Do you have any _idea_ how many men I lost in that battle?"

"Of course I do," she was quick to respond, heat creeping into her voice. "Do _you_ have any idea the sort of political fallout that comes when you're forced to recognize that you'll be combating a Blight without the Grey Wardens?" She paused long enough to take a stabilizing breath. "That the King is _dead_? And when Bann Teagan takes it upon himself to question you in front of every Bann and Arl of Ferelden? What do you do then? There was nothing I could do."

"Did you try?"

Cailan looked at her then, and for a moment, every jagged edge in his eyes smoothed away. He looked to her now for the truth, for the council he so often requested. He didn't need her to describe her father's betrayal, how he held her in the palace with a guard for so many months, how he only allowed her to appear in front of her people when he was near. He didn't want to hear of her own trials, just as she did not wish to speak of them. He wanted a simple answer, even if the honesty hurt him.

She could _feel_ her gaze waver, but she forced herself to look at him. Now was not the time to treat him like a child. He was no longer the man she'd married. She would learn him again if he gave her the chance. However, she did not believe that would be the case. No matter how clearly the Cailan she remembered was reflected in his eyes in that moment, she reminded herself that he was not that man. "No."

A crack formed in his expression, trailing just between his arched brows, but he did not speak. For once in his life, he didn't know what to _say_. The truth hit him as if it'd been running, and suddenly he did not wish to know it any longer.

"If you do not mind my asking," Anora began, effectively slicing through the silence, "what do you intend to do with my father?"

"He betrayed me."

Cailan's voice was hardly more than a murmur. In that moment, she already knew the answer, and she cursed herself silently for the tears that burned at her eyes. She forced them back down, blinking once and then again before hardly the memory of them remained. She should have expected this. It was the only logical conclusion.

"An execution, then," she whispered, her eyes turning from her husband to the stone floor beneath her feet. The admission solidified the fear in her stomach, turning it into lead.

"I'm sorry, Anora."

When she looked back up to him, her jaw was tightened as she struggled against her emotions. He could see her shoulders rise and fall just slightly as she took a long breath, releasing from between her lips. "Don't apologize. You're doing what you must. I'm p –" The word clung to the back of her tongue. She couldn't say it. Now was not the time. There might never be a time. A quiet cough cleared her throat. "And what of me?"

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he hadn't decided yet. His thoughts went to Isobel, who he'd just seen not an hour before. In the week since he'd stumbled into camp, her health was much improved. She was able to walk again within days, and now she was spending most of her time with him. Much more than that, he helped her back into her armor the past afternoon. There would have to make alterations to them due to her weight loss, but he'd offered her two other options. Either he could purchase her a new suit of armor, or she'd allow him to "fatten her up." He could hear her laugh, even within the memory.

And then his thoughts went to Alistair, who'd lost so much at Ostagar. He could not show mercy to those who betrayed him knowing that they'd so gravely hurt his brother in the process. He deserved better.

Just as Cailan opened his mouth to respond, the door swung open behind Anora. She twisted in surprised, only to find two figures in the doorway. One was a small, slight woman she recognized as Chella, but the second was unfamiliar. He was tall, with dark hair down to his shoulders and a month's growth on his jaw. The expression on the bard's face was clear.

The Queen turned around once more. Her eyes met Cailan's just long enough for him to see a flash of what appeared to be acceptance shrouded in the blue. "We'll speak of it later." With that, she slipped between the two intruders and made her way out of the arl's estate.

"What is it?" the King asked, narrowing his eyes at Chella without acknowledging the stranger.

"He is a Warden," she said, a little defensively, "I ran into him in the Markets."

At her introduction, the man took a step through the door. Cailan could almost sense that she was telling the truth. His shoulders were pulled back with an almost innate pride, and there was a grace in his movements when he dipped forward in a bow that was almost flattering. The man drew himself up once more.

"It is an honor, your Majesty. I have tried to contact you, but you are a very difficult man to reach." His voice was warm and faintly accented. He was Orlesian. "My name is Riordan."


	22. Chapter 22

Cailan's conversation with the Orlesian Warden did not take as long as the man would have hoped.

From all the stories he'd heard of the king, many of them tread upon the near-comical. The humor was lost entirely the moment Riordan realized he was here to give him bad news. For the longest time, he'd assumed he would be speaking to the two remaining Wardens of Ferelden, not the _king_. And after the rumors that spread like wildfire once he arrived in Denerim, he wondered exactly how the king would react.

Things did not go well. He offered them the knowledge he possessed with a heavy heart, but that was not enough to quiet Cailan, who rose to his feet the moment the words left his mouth. Not given enough time to include that he was willing to strike the killing blow, he begged the king to listen, to hear all that he had to say, and eventually he quieted.

This seemed to calm him, if only just. Riordan bowed his head when Cailan rested his heavy gauntlets on his shoulders, thanking him. Then, like that, he and Alistair – who'd remained silent for most of the conversation - were gone.

Once they'd left the study, they picked through every room in the Arl's estate, seemingly unable to find a room that wasn't inhabited. They had to talk, and both of them knew why. As much as Cailan hated the very idea, they would need a backup plan. Without Loghain to strategize with, he would have to rely on Alistair. Truly he could not think of a better option. He did not wish to do so. His half-brother had been helpful these past months.

Finally, they discovered an empty room at the very corner of the second floor – one of the only bedchambers not in use.

Alistair lingered in the doorway, watching Cailan closely as he made his way across the room and set himself down on the foot of the bed. If only Riordan had waited a day, perhaps two, then he might have been ready for this, ready to at least consider the possibilities. After a long meeting with Anora, one that no doubt held any number of important decisions, he deserved rest, some small reprieve before being rushed by yet another problem in such a short amount of time.

Making his way over to the bed, Alistair sat beside him, far enough away to not touch, but close enough to be comforting. He wondered for a moment if he should reach out and rest his hand upon Cailan's shoulder, but he thought better of it, his hands lacing in his lap instead.

"With Riordan willing to strike the final blow, there's a chance she won't be needed," he offered, a lilt of forced confidence in his voice.

Cailan wet his lips, though his eyes did not leave the floor in front of his feet. "I doubt the _dragon_ will really bother with what Riordan is _willing_ to do," the king countered. "All it would take is a swipe of its claw, and Riordan would be dead before he hit the ground." Pausing, he ran his fingers over the intricately smithed designs that spanned his armor, the dips and grooves of gold that covered his cuisses. "Still, your attempts at comfort are... They are appreciated."

"Regardless of their sense?"

"Or lack thereof," he replied, the thin line of his mouth curving upwards for a moment.

Alistair sighed, his hands scrubbing at his face. None of them truly deserved this; not now, and especially not Isobel. They'd all lost much due to the Blight, and one or more of them were set to lose something yet again, should Riordan fail. Another twist of fate just didn't seem fair. Then again, as the Chantry sisters used to tell him often, nothing about life was fair. It proceeded as the Maker planned, with little or no bother towards the will of men.

If the will of men didn't go so thoroughly ignored, the world might have been a better place. The Blight would be destroyed. Loghain would be dead instead of sitting in Fort Drakon. Duncan might still be alive. Isobel would have no reason to fear the weight of a sword in her hand and the sound of scraping metal.

"She's going to want to strike the final blow, you know, should Riordan fail."

He didn't know where the words came from. All he knew was that he wanted them to disappear the moment they left his lips. He could _feel_ Cailan's entire body tense. Suddenly the room seemed two times smaller than before, and despite the lack of a fire, he felt a familiar heat spread over his skin.

Cailan, however, felt his blood run cold. While Riordan spoke of what happened once the archdemon was slain, he'd denied the very idea that Isobel's life may be in danger yet again. Forced ignorance came remarkably easy to him, and he'd very nearly begun to believe his own bilge by the time Alistair brought forth the idea, something that wouldn't have bothered him if the statement wasn't agonizingly true.

"No. No, _no_, that's not going to happen. She can't."

"She is one of very limited options." Alistair bit down on his bottom lip, brows cinching together. "And you know how she is."

Cailan looked to him with wide eyes, and Alistair felt his heart twist in his chest. Only a few times before had he ever seen that look in the king's eyes, that look of utter desperation. Again, he wished he could take back his words and erase them from his memory. Since that was not possible, he winced instead, looking towards the hands in his lap instead. When Cailan spoke, his voice was thin, as if the sound could be broken with a snap of two fingers. "She can't." He sucked in a breath, turning his eyes away from his brother to focus instead on the floor beneath them both. "She _must not_. She's not ready."

_Say you believe him_, Alistair thought, eyes falling shut. _Say you believe him, and that Isobel isn't ready. Say that you'll strike the final blow. _

The words that left him were nothing of the sort. "Will you be telling her about what Riordan told us? Or would you prefer I do it?"

He waited some time for a response. By the time Cailan spoke, his tone entirely leaden, he half-imagined he would be forced to leave without a direct answer. "You should tell her. You're a fellow Warden; this is Warden business. I have no place."

"Very well."

Cailan watched as Alistair stood from the bed and made his way towards the door. "But, Alistair," he called out, thankful when he turned and regarded him with curiosity. "I... don't want this to seem like I want you to take the blow. It's not that at all." His blue eyes clouded, though the miniature storm passed quickly. "If there was any way to make sure you would both be safe..."

"I know," Alistair replied with a lopsided smile; an actual, genuine smile that made Cailan feel the slightest bit better.

Before he was able to say another word or give him a smile of his own, he's gone. Cailan's head sunk downwards into his palms, fingers rubbing absently at his forehead before letting himself fall backwards onto the bed.

As Cailan stared up at the ceiling, Alistair made his way across the estate to where he knew Isobel would be. She spent most of her time in the study on the first floor. Arryn was there with her most of the time, as well, but thankfully, that was not the case today. No doubt she was off spending some quality time with Godfrey, another frequent use of her free time.

When he entered the room, he found Isobel seated in one of the many plush chairs, her legs tucked beneath her as she thumbed through one of the many large books of maps Arl Eamon's study boasted. She glanced up from the map of Antiva with a small smile that only widened when she realized who stood in the doorway. "Good afternoon, Alistair," she said, shifting in her seat a little in order to straighten her posture. From this distance, she couldn't see the wrinkle on his brow. She could, however, _feel_ that something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Maker, he didn't want to do this. He didn't want to tell her a thing. She'd already agreed to stay out of the fighting, knowing she wasn't well enough to participate. He knew that the moment Riordan's words were repeated, she would change her mind. She would want to be there. She'd want to be the one to put her sword through the archdemon's throat.

Alistair swallowed the lump in his throat, taking a step into the study and shutting the door.

* * *

When Isobel left the study to return to her room, the book of maps rested against her hip like a small child, she found that Cailan was already there. He stood the moment he heard the door open. Curiosity was scrawled across his features, creasing his brow, narrowing his eyes. Despite what he'd expected, she didn't seem as effected as he'd imagined she would be. Then again, she'd gone through worse in recent weeks.

He opened his mouth to say something, only to have her wave her hand at him. He knew her well enough to decipher this was a sign that she didn't wish to talk. But _he_ wanted to talk. He _needed_ to talk. He felt like he'd explode if he wasn't able to talk, to say something to her, to ask her what Alistair said.

She seemed to complacent. Fear gripped, white-knuckled, around his stomach, twisting it in his gut, when he realized why she might be so. Did she tell Alistair that she was going to strike the killing blow? That her life hardly mattered in comparison to a son of Maric? Surely, Alistair wouldn't let her do something like that. He seemed so set on sacrificing himself should Riordan fail. Or was he more focused on keeping Isobel alive? If it was the latter, why? For Cailan or for himself?

"Cailan." Her voice was soft, but the sound of it still tore him away from his thoughts. He looked to her wearing an expectant expression. "Are you... going to be there? When the archdemon is slain?"

Golden brows shot upwards. "What do you mean? Will I be fighting?"

"Yes."

He shook his head, his bottom lip caught between twin rows of teeth. "No," he murmured, "I will be overseeing the battle, but I will not take part in it."

Isobel smiled, setting her book down on the desk opposite the foot of her bed, where Cailan stood. Her hand smoothed over the tightly-bound cover, ghosting over the letters, nails dragging lightly over the edges. "Did Eamon suggest you do so? I hear he can be very persuasive."

"It was my idea, actually," he admitted, taking a few steps forward. Not near enough to reach out to her, he rooted himself to the ground, toes flexing inwards to grip the soles of his boots.

When she turned to him, the look on her face was one of blatant surprise. "I figured you would want to be out there, leading all of your men." She closed the distance between them, her hands rising to settle on his forearms. This time, her nails dug into nothing. Her fingertips moved along the soft folds of his shirt, smoothing each bend until nothing but a small crease remained. "It is a wise decision. I'm quite proud of you."

"Thank you," he murmured, eyes downcast for no more than a moment. The brief shyness brought a wider smile to her lips. "For once in my life, I don't _want_ the glory. The last time I grasped for glory, I very nearly lost everything." Smoothing his hand over her hair, he stared down at her. The look in his blue eyes was distant, as if he looked to some far off shore and not the curve of Isobel's brow. "Now I have even more to lose, and I refuse to do it."

She gazed up at him. Before now, she'd only ever seen Cailan in the man standing there. He grew and changed in small, noticeable ways, but he was always Cailan. But now, as her mind reeled at his words, she saw something else. She saw pieces of the man history would know as King Cailan Theirin; a persevering hero, come so far from the man who went shamelessly into a battle he could not win. The thought reminded her of something.

"I heard Teagan speaking of historians the other day," she said, "Of how you're sure to be heralded even more so than your father. You were not a man who went from not having his crown to having it, but a man who had it for years before everything was stolen away from you and you gained it all back."

The smile on Cailan's lips was a soft one, barely more than a curl at each corner. "Indeed. I've gained it all back and more."

A blush rose on her cheeks, and she wrinkled her nose, laughing. "Well, as I was saying... It spurred a great deal of thought within me." His brows rose in question. "All monarchs require a name, don't they? Your father is called the Savior. Your grandmother – the Rebel Queen. You should have one."

"Let me guess," he replied, "You have some prepared."

"Indeed. Cailan the Resilient happens to be my favorite," Isobel murmured, her fingers sliding into his golden hair. He imagined he would never get used to the look in her eyes when they fell upon him. They were a stark contrast to the many different glares he remembered from the beginning of their journey. How had annoyance, frustration, and anger led into such a look of reverence? "Should I talk to Brother Genitivi about this?"

"I was hoping for something like Cailan the Indomitable. Or perhaps Cailan the Steadfast." He paused, giving his bottom lip a thoughtful chew. "I like the sound of Cailan the Handsome."

Isobel swallowed back her laughter, pulling herself up onto the balls of her feet to plant a kiss on his cheek. Her arms loosened their hold from around his neck as she fell back down, hands coursing over his forearms until they clasped around his wrists. Turning in the direction of their bed, her lips parted in a warm smile. "But, oh, you're so much more than just a pretty face."

Grinning, Cailan followed her, chuckling all the way. "Oh? What else am I, then?"

"You're kind," she began.

"Mm-hmm."

"And you're clever."

"So very clever."

Biting back a laugh, she grinned instead. "You're strong."

"Not nearly as strong as you."

Isobel narrowed her eyes at him, dusting stray strands of gold away from his forehead. Her fingers trailed down his face until they pressed against his mouth, holding it closed. "This isn't about me," she murmured, "This is about you. So shut your mouth and listen. Do you understand?" He nodded. "Good."


	23. Chapter 23

"Mmm... I love beds."

The first thought that passed through Isobel's mind was, 'Is he talking to himself? Or does he realize I'm awake?' Of course, the answer to the question hardly mattered when she felt him flop over onto his side and curl an arm over her waist; the bed shook with each of his wriggled movements as he moved towards her instead of pulling her backwards. He came to a rest not long after, and she cringed a little, biting back a smile, when she felt the curve of his chin resting in the slope of her neck. "I never want to sleep on the ground again."

Clearing her throat, she rolled her shoulders back until they were pressed flush against his chest. "Do I have to remind you that you were sleeping on a _cot_? A cot with a bedroll _on it_?" She could both feel and hear his chuckle, a quiet rumble against the skin behind her ear. "You were hardly sleeping on the ground."

"Yes, well, I was extraordinarily close."

"And you had a bed in Orzammar."

"Bhelen was only being ni-"

"And in Redcliffe."

Cailan grumbled before giving her earlobe a playful nip. "I was merely making an _observation_. There's no need to go and prove me wrong on purpose." Nuzzling right where he'd bitten moments before, he smiled, fingers splaying on her stomach. "Anyway, sleeping without you next to me is like sleeping on a pile of rocks, so your logic is worth little."

His heart hitched in his chest when he felt her hand curl around his wrist, holding his fingers as close to her as she could. "Well, _I_ actually slept on the ground all those long months," she began, scooting over so she could turn onto her back. He pulled up the covers so she'd be able to maneuver without getting tangled, and she curled up on her side, cheek pressed into his bent arm. "And I have to admit, this is _much_ preferable."

Her hand found his cheek, palm resting around the curve of his jaw. Green eyes narrowing a little, she focused on his mouth, the pad of her thumb dragging over the pink flesh as her smile widened. "I'm still not _used_ to waking up here, but that isn't a complaint. Not at all."

"Mm, I should hope not," Cailan murmured his response, tilting his chin down far enough to give her thumb a small kiss. "That would make me feel absolutely _terrible_. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

When her hand moved from his face to his neck, he shut his eyes, his smile softening until there was hardly more than a small quirk in the very corner. He gave a quiet sound of acceptance that had her grinning nearly from ear to ear. She'd discovered rather quickly that the King had an _incredibly_ sensitive neck. She wasn't normally the sort of woman who would take advantage of such information, but he was just too precious when he reacted like this.

Isobel wriggled downward until she could reach his throat with ease, rubbing her cheek against the warm flesh. "How did you sleep?"

"Like a babe, as always," he replied, his own hands setting to smoothing over the delicate ivory fabric of her nightdress. "I had the oddest dream, though. Oghren smacked me with a gauntlet and challenged me to a duel... because he believed I'd stolen his smallclothes."

He took a moment to collect himself when he felt her lips just beneath his jaw. "And... and you? How did you sleep?"

"Not well," she admitted, though she did so casually. The conversation was to end there, and that was clearly written in the lilt to her tone. He knew when to press her for answers and when to take a step back. More often that not, she was open to persuasion, but lately her dreams were bothering her, not surprising considering what she was still recovering from. "Do you have any plans today, or are you going to attempt to bribe me into a new set of armor again?"

"As of today, it's a week until..." The words caught in his throat. "I have a week until I will be needed. In the meantime, you'll have to deal with me, I'm afraid."

Isobel gave a quiet laugh. "Oh, no," she murmured, passing her lips up to his cheek, her hands resting themselves on his shoulders. As she moved, she placed a tiny kiss over every new inch of skin. "Whatever shall I do?"

"Well, first off, you start by giving me a kiss."

Her eyes moved up to his, brows tilting upwards in a mild form of surprise. "Oh, is that how it goes?"

"Don't question it," he smiled.

She found that it was best to listen to him, especially when he clearly knew so much about the topic at hand. Brushing strands of gold away from his forehead, Isobel brought herself up until her mouth was mere inches from his, taking that time to draw in a deep breath. He smelled faintly of both soap and cologne – something both woody and fresh. This smell was punctuated with that of the sheets and _her_. She could smell her own perfume, infinitely more feminine than the scent he wore, on him, and it made her smile.

Before she could recover, Cailan bridged the gap between their mouths, pressing his lips to hers. With an almost silent sigh, she felt herself melt closer to him, shifting until her chest was pressed against his, one arm sliding around his back. This kiss was wholly unlike those they shared before. There was no tongue, no teeth, no moans and no words; just lips.

When he pulled away, he shifted until he was lying on his back, and she was pulled with him, slipping a little at first due to the slinky fabric of her chemise. Giving a short squeal, she moved forward, careful not to rest on the long hair that fell over his shoulders.

They rested like that for a long while. Isobel remained half-lying across his chest, her face hovering above his, a curtain of dark red falling to one side, and he buried the crown of his head into the pillow beneath him, bright blue eyes glimmering in the bright morning light that filtered through the pale curtains. As she stared at him, her fingers smoothed over his features, wary at first with the knowledge that her hands were not as soft as they should have been. The contented expression that shifted his mouth into a small smile and brought the lids of his eyes downward, however, emboldened her until she allowed herself to comb her fingers up into his hair.

As she stroked her hands absently through the strands, keeping thoughts of what they'd been through together at bay was impossible. They'd seen so much, suffered _so much_. And yet, here she was. She could hold a sword again. She'd even strapped herself into her armor without being gripped by panic. She couldn't have recovered so quickly without him, without his constant encouragement. She knew that this was only the beginning, the first tall hill before a mountain range, but so long as he was here, the trek would not be so terrible.

She could hardly believe her current situation. After leaving Highever and plunging, headfirst, into a war she would've all too willingly avoided had she been given the chance, she was lying in the arms of the King, and this wasn't some idle fancy of hers after catching sight of him at the Landsmeet. This was _real_. She could feel his chest rising and falling just beneath hers. Every now and again, she could feel his pulse. The same blanket she slept beneath, so did he. They shared the same embrace, the same kiss.

"I love you."

The admission wasn't sweetly or softly spoken. From her lips, such a thing wouldn't have sounded _right_. What she gave him was a statement. Her voice was quiet, but filled with a solid strength that spoke volumes of how thoroughly she believed in what she she spoke.

His eyes opened slowly, his brows cinching together as if he hadn't heard her correctly. He took a moment before the wrinkles on his forehead smoothed away. She watched as his lips parted and then closed before parting again. When he finally spoke, his voice was distant, shrouded in disbelief. "You... you actually _mean_ that, don't you?"

When she gave a decisive nod, he felt as if his heart stopped completely.

"Isobel, I..." No matter how quickly she steeled herself against whatever his reaction would be, the uncertainty in his voice tore her eyes away from his, instead focusing on the sprinkling of golden curls on his chest. Of course he would hesitate. What had she expected? For him to kiss her soundly and respond in kind? "I hardly _deserve_ to hear such a thing, after all that's happened."

When she pulled her hands out of his hair, he felt as if she'd taken a piece of him with her, and the surprised expression on his face fell. She gathered them atop his chest, running absently over the dips and curves of each muscle. "There's no need to explain yourself," she murmured, her eyes lifting to his for a moment before they looked away again. "I felt you should know, and now that you do, we can... go on as usual." She brightened a little, though the effect was theatrical at best. "What are we to do next?"

"You're going to _look_ at me," Cailan said, his voice oddly commanding. "You're going to look at me, and you're going to listen to what I have to say. So look at me." At that, her eyes lifted from his chest to meet his. The detached light that filled them almost caused him physical pain. "You caught me by surprise, that's all. That's... not what I was expecting. What you got was my knee jerk reaction." He paused, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth to give it a good chew as he thought over his next words. "I'm sorry; you didn't deserve that."

His hand moved from where his palm was rested against the small of her back to curl around her chin, his thumb moving along her bottom lip, just as she'd done earlier. "You were honest with me, so you deserve my honesty, as well." He took a deep breath, releasing it in a shaky sigh as a small smile unfurled in the corner of his mouth. "I love you, too, Iso. More than I even knew was _possible_."

The moment her green eyes widened, Cailan felt a warmth bloom in the very center of his chest. "And then _after_ you've recovered from that surprise – though, really, it should be no surprise – you're going to give me another kiss. And then there's going to be snuggling."

"Sounds good to me," she replied, though the smile on her lips clearly hindered her speech. His index flicked at the thin line beside her mouth, deepened by her grin. Shutting her eyes, the smile pushing her cheeks upwards, she leaned forward. What was supposed to be a kiss ended with the two of them clicking teeth. Cailan grunted in surprise, and Isobel's eyes flew open, her smile stuttering as she stifled a laugh. "That was _horrible_. Do you call that a kiss, your Majesty?"

Shining blue eyes narrowed up at her. "Oh, I'll show you a kiss," he half-growled, though the sound was intertwined with laughter. Grabbing her by the waist, he flipped her over onto her back, quickly taking up position above her. He rested on his elbows, his face mere inches above hers. There was no lingering; instead, he dipped forward, snatching up her top lip between his teeth before giving it a gentle tug.

Isobel felt as if she'd melt right into the mattress as she felt his tongue drag along her lips, seeking entrance. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she pulled him down farther on top of her, reveling in the sensation of his hips pressing into hers, his weight resting against her from chest to toes.

Had she still cared for logic, her thoughts would have easily turned sour. They might not have much time left. That coupled with the fact that he was still married, that Anora was still considered the Queen, proved to be a rather large hurdle to deal with. Even so, things were just _easier_ when she opted to wrap her arms around Cailan and forget about everything. She could focus on the sunlight filtering into the room and the feeling of his hair brushing against her face and his hands smoothing over her cheeks. She could focus on _him_. Focusing on him made everything seem less terrifying.

Focusing on him made everything seem brighter.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm going to be honest with you all. After all the negativity I've been receiving, I'm perfectly okay with ending this right here. I don't see the point in continuing if the story isn't being enjoyed, since that's what it's here for. So I felt you should all know that I'm more than willing to give Isobel and Cailan their happy ending, not even touch on the Siege and what happens afterward, and just leave it.

I've always been of the idea that "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all." I am very willing to read over constructive criticism, but a three sentence paragraph of a PM or a review of even less doesn't help. And it sure as hell doing change anything. So if you think I'm getting my jollies by twisting character portrayals and making ridiculous moves just to get my darling princess hooked up with the king, please keep it to yourself.

I _love_ this story. I've been writing it for over six months now. I don't want to end it so suddenly, but there's a strong possibility that it's going to happen. But, hey, at least everyone talking about how silly it is won't have to see it thrust in their face anymore, right? ;)


	24. Chapter 24

There was something fitting about Cailan being the very last person to visit Loghain before the execution.

He'd only seen Anora in passing when he entered the long hallway leading to this very cell, but her presence still filled the chamber. The sensation was unsettling; the smell of her lingering scent only intensifying his own feelings, the desperate desire to leave before a word was said only growing, multiplying, in his chest. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to hear a word that Loghain had to say. He didn't want to be forced to listen to his explanations, to his scathing comments and criticisms.

The hero of River Dane was just as he remembered. His imagination spun images that he would have preferred to find living in this cell – a broken, apologetic man with heavy, shaking hands and blue eyes that entreated mercy. But Loghain was too proud for that.

When the guard unlocked the heavy cell door, revealing a bedroom kept for the more illustrious prisoners, he also found Loghain sitting near the window. The chair was sturdy and well-built, much like the man who sat upon it, his thick arms bent against his knees to hold up sturdy shoulders. He rose to his feet entirely out of instinct, though he didn't bar his arms across his chest or bow his dark head. His actions weren't meant to show respect, and his disinclination to bow only proved such.

"Your Majesty...?" The guard still standing near the door remained, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His face was a familiar one. He was too young to remember much about the man he watched over.

Cailan turned profile, the gray light filtering from the high window casting a shadow over his features. "Leave me with him."

"Yes, your Majesty."

A single bar of the arms, and the door was shut. They were alone. For the first time in months, they were alone.

The last time they were alone was on the night of the battle at Ostagar, just after his meeting with Duncan and Isobel. He'd retreated to his tent, followed by Loghain, only to be criticized for his impending allegiance with the Orlesians. There was nothing but disdain in Mac Tir's voice as he railed on and on, claiming they did not need the extra hands, especially not from the country who'd dominated their lands for centuries.

In hindsight, their last meeting was almost humorous.

For what felt like a small eternity, the two men stood there, staring at each other. They both wished to speak first, but neither wanted to be interrupted. Instead of giving the other the opportunity, silence pitched a thick shroud over them both.

There was ice in Loghain's stare; it was colder than usual, almost as if his eyes were white instead of blue. They didn't meet the yielding gaze of a boy. Sparkling idealism no longer brightened the eyes that were so much like Maric's. They seemed darker; harder, and no matter how many emotions thrummed through his blood, one stood out from the others.

He was impressed. He'd known Cailan for every year of his young life, and never before had he seen anything even hinting towards harsh from him. The fact that he stood here now in the chamber of the man who'd stolen everything from him, a stubborn, impossible force, was nearly beyond his comprehension. He was no longer the velvet-trimmed princeling he'd heaped upon with doubt and distrust. There was nothing soft about him as he stood, feet rooted into the stone floor, entirely unmoving. Had he done this? Was this man standing before him the product of his actions?

Finally, when he could stand the quiet no longer, Cailan's lips parted. "I'm here to ask your forgiveness." The words were clumsy on his tongue. He'd clearly rehearsed this speech, so Loghain remained silent, resting back down onto his chair and arms crossing over his chest. "Maker forgive me for what must be done. You were my father's greatest friend, and a... _trusted_ adviser." The acidic twang of bile bit at the back of his throat as his stomach churned. Trusted. For so long, he'd given the man before him every ounce of trust that was his to give, and what for? "But you struck the killing blow yourself, the moment you decided to betray me."

"You will forgive me if I do not willingly accept your speech, Cailan." If the young king was an immovable force, Loghain was the only giant capable of toppling him. "I am sure you worked very hard on it."

He couldn't even manage a smirk when he saw Cailan's golden brows knit forward. He was, however, able to stop him from the interruption that teased his throat. "I've spent the last two weeks in this room," he continued. "I have quite the view of Denerim from this window. I also receive news almost hourly from the guards." Passing his tongue along his teeth, he rested his shoulders against the back of the chair. "Word has it that you sent a force to the Circle Tower. You've mages on your side now, too. And the Dalish, if word is true."

"It is," Cailan replied, his voice low.

"You've built yourself quite the army, from the sound of it. With the addition of my men-"

"They are not your men any longer."

A thick, black brow rose on Loghain's forehead. "You are right, of course."

"Your retreat was a blessing in disguise, it seems." Now _this_ was the Cailan he remembered. His tone was light; flippant, even. The ease with which he treated each situation with complete disregard was infuriating, and today was no different. "Your early retreat has left me with an entire force of soldiers to commit to my cause." He could nearly hear Loghain grinding his teeth. "I really should thank you for your magnificent foresight."

The words were out of his mouth before he could even consider them. Anyone would swear he spoke in such a way out of ignorance or immaturity, but that was hardly the case. When faced with the execution of his only living connection to his father, he found that he could scarcely breathe. This was merely his way of coping.

"Your _kindness_ does you no credit."

Cailan repressed the urge to wince. Instead, he straightened his shoulders and squared his jaw. "My _kindness_ has reached the very end of its rope, Loghain." Brows arched inward, he took a step forward. "You'll find that I've done more than is necessary to preserve what is yours."

The prisoner gave a start at that. He drifted forward in his chair, arms loosening from around his chest. He was not so much of a fool as to not realize what Cailan meant. Many long hours of the past weeks were spent with his daughter. She was unsure, almost afraid; she did not know what her husband intended to do with her. He was no longer the same man she'd known for all those years. The difference in him bred a foreign insecurity within her. She suspected that he would have her killed or imprisoned, sent away where she could not hurt him. Her fears were mirrored in her father.

"Speak plainly," Loghain said, though some small piece of him didn't want to hear the truth should it be bad. He could have died knowing that her fate was undecided. He wouldn't have been any the wiser. But now, he could know how she would fare. For once, he didn't know which was the better option.

"Your daughter will remain queen. She will lose none of the luxuries she is used to. The title will remain, as will her place here in Denerim. I do not intend to punish Anora for your mistakes."

He could feel the tension in the air disperse some, but there was still a rigidity in Loghain's posture that didn't ebb. He was waiting for something, though he did not speak of it. He wanted some confession of what had gone on between him and the Warden. He already knew more than he needed to, if Chella's reports were accurate, but he wanted to hear it from him. He wanted to hear Cailan acknowledge just how much of a cheating bastard he truly was.

But he didn't. Cailan stopped there and remained, posture straight, chin tilted upwards. It was remarkable how much he'd changed during the time on the road. For a moment, he'd thought himself in the presence of a ghost. Perhaps he'd gone mad. Perhaps he was sitting in this cell, kept company by pretend spectres. Would Rowan visit him next?

"You will never be _anything_ like Maric."

The words hit Cailan as if they'd been running. He nearly had to take a step back. Loghain watched as his son-in-law's face shifted, from silent pride to confusion and then to frustration. By his sides, his hands curled into fists, knuckles gleaming white. "I don't want to _be_ my father," he growled. There was a spark in his eyes that resembled anger in its truest form, and he spoke with such vehemence the words nearly burned his tongue. "I am his son. I am my own man."

"A lesser-"

"Perhaps!" The volume of Cailan's voice spiked as he strode forward. "Perhaps. Or maybe you're sitting in this cell right now, telling me this, because you realize what you've _done_. You betrayed Maric's _son_ and your rightful king. You put the entire country at risk of being wiped clean by the Blight due to your own _ridiculous_ paranoia." He was close enough now for Loghain to see the wrinkles around his narrowed eyes. "Not only that, but you put your daughter's position at risk – nay, her _life_. And for _what_?"

The only expression he received was stoic. Loghain was a master of masks, all of them uniform and all of them unbreakable. "Suspecting the inevitable is not paranoia," he began. He spoke evenly, a vast difference from the volatile man before him. "I did what I had to do in order to preserve Ferelden, as I have done for twice as long as you've been alive."

"You swore allegiance to my father." Cailan's voice shook. "You swore allegiance to me. You were his _friend_. Why did you do this?"

"My friendship with Maric was not attached to his _crown_."

Taking a step back, Cailan straightened his posture, his eyes leaving Loghain's face for just long enough to regain whatever composure he'd lost in his moment of hysteria. "I came here to ask for your forgiveness. It was not my idea. The Revered Mother suggested I do so. Your forgiveness would help me absolve myself in the eyes of the Maker." He passed his tongue over his bottom lip before taking it into his mouth, bitten between both rows of teeth.

He couldn't look at him. He couldn't bear it. Whenever he looked at man before him, all he saw was Ostagar and all that he'd lost. He saw the flaming fields, the fallen soldiers, the darkspawn. He saw Haven, his father's ghost. He saw Alistair and Isobel, sitting beside the fire, spilling their tales to Arryn and Godfrey. The moment blue met blue, he saw everything but Loghain Mac Tir. Instead, he saw everything that filled the last few months. He saw memories, and he saw the gallows.

"So that is why I'm here, I suppose. Not to argue with you over whether or not I'll ever be able to fill my father's footsteps. I want you to know that I am... truly, _deeply_ sorry that it's come to this. Had there been another option that didn't threaten the strength of my rule, I would have taken it." He drew a shaky breath, releasing it slowly. "Know that your daughter will be safe, no matter what happens. She was a friend long before she was my wife. I only wish that you would find it in yourself to pardon me."

The boy was always so genuine. Many often considered this one of his more grievous faults – Loghain among them – but he just couldn't find it within himself to deny him this. "You doing what must be done."

Cailan knew that was as much of a reprieve as he'd ever get from Loghain, so he accepted it. He would be able to breathe the slightest bit easier. The prisoner made it clear that the conversation was over, turning in his chair until nothing more than his profile was in view. He looked tired. As long as he'd known Loghain, he remembered him looking world weary, but this was something different. There was something almost _accepting _in his expression.

One final question remained, teasing his lips as the words begged for release.

"Was it worth it?"

For a while, Cailan's question hung in the air between them. Loghain considered the words, considered the meaning behind them. He thought of Maric, of all that he'd accomplished and all his potential. This potential was spurred on by tragedy, by having everything stolen away from him. Had the Orlesians never occupied Ferelden and had he been raised under the banner of his queen mother, he might not have become the great king history would remember him as.

Before him stood Maric's son, raised from birth in a country wholly his. He didn't know the stresses of being forced to hide from a mad king. He had utterly no idea what it was like to survive outside of the castle. Or, at least, the boy he remembered did not. The king standing before him now was another person entirely. Another person spurred on by tragedy. Another person fate had nearly stolen everything from. Just as his father, he'd lifted himself up and regained what was rightfully his.

Maybe he was more like Maric than he'd originally thought.

Loghain's expression was sober as he regarded Cailan. "I believe that it was."

* * *

**A/N:** So, as you can probably tell, I've decided that I am going to continue. You guys were right – there's no reason for me to stop writing a story that I enjoy so much just because of some scathing reviews and private messages. I apologize for the rather blunt (and quite dramatic) author note on the last chapter. I didn't mean for it to come off as a desperate plea for reviews or anything of the sort. I was just afraid that Isobel and Cailan had run their course. And evidently my muse didn't entirely agree with me.

That said, Cailan and Isobel's story will most certainly continue. I'm not exactly sure how many chapters there will be, but there's going to be at least five, if my calculations are correct, perhaps more. I'm not entirely sure at this point; there was supposed to be more than one part to _this_ chapter, but Loghain and Cailan got a bit chatty.

So, yes, I wanted to thank you all _so much_ for your continuous support. Even if there are those out there who get their rocks off by being condescending or just blast any story with a Cousland lead, there will be a dozen or more who take their time to read and enjoy it for what it is. So thank you, thank you, thank you. A million times. I appreciate it more than you know.


	25. Chapter 25

One night. They had one night.

With the forced march looming over the heads of everyone seated in the main dining hall of Redcliffe Castle, even the light supper turned to stone in the pit of Cailan's stomach. He sat at the head of the table after his uncle's light-hearted demands, wrist absently rubbing against the edge of the table as his eyes half-focused on the grain of the wood. The quiet drone of conversation only aided his distraction, and he found himself completely deaf to anyone who spoke around him.

Isobel told him earlier that it would be best if he distracted himself, if he thought of everything _but_ the upcoming battle. She knew such a thing was impossible, right? In a scant few days, he would be in Denerim. He could already feel the heat of the flames as the city burned, could smell and see the thick, black, smothering smoke, the acidic tang of darkspawn blood mixed with the iron of human, elf, dwarf. Knowing fear as he did now only amplified the grip it held on his stomach.

This reverie was jostled the moment he felt a large hand on his forearm. Looking up from his plate to the man who sat next to him, he managed a small smile that only slightly resembled the one on Teagan's face. His uncle's eyes were shining in the bright lights of the hall; he always saw his mother there, in his eyes.

"Eat," the bann urged him, his hand lifting from Cailan's forearm to gesture towards the plate. "You'll need your strength. I would rather not see you fall off of your horse before we get out of Redcliffe."

"I have eaten," he said defensively.

Teagan chuckled, shaking his head. "You have much to worry about, Cailan; I will not lie. I'm sure you know this. But look around you." His dark red brows lifted and pinched as he watched his young nephew glance around the room. He could see the distance in his light eyes draw closer. "Everyone here is on your side, and this is only a fraction of your army." Patting his forearm again, he drew back, hands lacing on the table in front of him. "You will be victorious. I've never been so sure of anything in my entire life."

He once thought that Isobel was the only person capable of giving his morale such a boost, but he found that he was mistaken. What Teagan said was the truth. It had to be. He wouldn't accept failure when he was so close, not knowing what he would lose – what _everyone_ would lose – if they were not victorious. Without failure as an option, he couldn't linger on those poisonous thoughts. He had to be _here_. He had to be in this hall, not off daydreaming of how things might be, for his men and himself.

Nodding, he bit down on his bottom lip, his eyes leaving Teagan's to look instead towards the very end of the table. Alistair sat opposite him, his eyes downcast but a small smile quirking the corner of his mouth. He was listening to Godfrey, who was leaning towards him, speaking in animated tones, his free hand waving to accentuate his words. The other hand rested on the table, clutching Arryn's much smaller one. Isobel sat across from them, goblet of water poised at her lips as she watched the conversation unfold. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, the deep red only serving as a stark contrast to the pale blue ribbon that held it there.

That was where he wanted to be. He wanted to be sitting down there, with Isobel, with his closest friends in the world. They had one last night to spend in each others' company, and when this battle was over, there would be a change. They would all be harder; some of them might even be missing. If the Orlesian Warden, Riordan, failed in his task, Alistair would no longer be sitting at the end of the table.

That thought was the one that twisted in his guts. He knew Isobel would be safe; she'd promised to remain in the arl's estate with whatever nobles too old or too young to fight. She was still not well enough to participate in the battle herself, though she reckoned this was more for Cailan's benefit than her own. But Alistair... Alistair's fate was not to sure. There was an immediate danger he had to face – the possibility that Riordan might not strike the final blow on the Archdemon.

"You should go and sit with them."

Teagan's voice brought Cailan back from his thoughts again. Turning his eyes towards him instead of those seated at the end of the table, he gave a quiet, "Hm?"

"Go," Teagan repeated, giving Cailan's hand another unconscious pat. "It looks like someone's waiting for you."

They both glanced back down at the four at the end of the table only to see Isobel looking back at them, a smile on her lips. She gave Teagan a slight bow of her head before looking to Cailan, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she grinned even wider into her goblet.

Looking back to Teagan, he saw that his uncle was wearing a knowing smile of his own. "Maker, is it that obvious?"

"I'd like to think that I could pick up on such _subtle_ signs, yes."

At that, Cailan averted his eyes, his cheek twitching. He didn't _want_ to be overt about this, about her. He wanted to spare her the ridicule, the looks that came with being the king's mistress no matter how unhappily married he was or how sweet her nature. Anora was well-loved by the people; anyone intruding upon her would be looked down upon, even if she _was_ the reason the king himself survived the betrayal at Ostagar. "I'll expect a lecture should everything go smoothly with the darkspawn."

He was still looking at the table when Teagan's smile faltered only for a moment. "Why would I give you a lecture? It's true that I'd hoped you wouldn't be forced into anything like this, but I'm not blind. If you're unhappy, find something that makes you happy." Lifting his goblet to his mouth, he took a long sip before setting it back down. "That's what's important."

"Wait, the king's happiness actually _matters_? After all these years, I thought it was just some foreign thing I read about in stories," Cailan replied with a lopsided, half-grin.

Teagan rolled his eyes and laughed. No matter how old Cailan got, he'd still be as dull as a stone when it came to some things. "Everyone's happiness matters," he said, giving his nephew a pointed look as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"And what of yours, uncle?" Cailan asked, efficiently changing the subject. The question brought a bright smile to the bann's face, and he knew that he'd picked the right one to ask.

Dark blue eyes glinted from above the rim of his goblet as he finished off the rest of his wine. When he set it down once more, his fingers trailed along the slender bottom. "I have someone waiting for me when I return, if that is what you're asking." At Cailan's arched brow, he continued, his smile growing until there was a dimple carved deep into his cheek. "Her name is Lena; her family has been living in Redcliffe for some time. We met in the Chantry during one of the attacks. So if not for your and Isobel's help, I'd still be a bachelor."

For the next half an hour, Cailan continued questioning Teagan on this lover of his, though his eyes flicked from him down the table to Isobel and back again. As they spoke, the men and women in the hall slowly began to leave, filtering out until there were only a few left, clinging to another goblet or another slice of venison, anything to keep them from heading to bed, knowing the march to start in the morning. They were deep in their discussion of repairs when Cailan felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning to look upwards, a smile broke out onto his lips when his eyes rested upon Isobel.

"I apologize for interrupting, but Arryn wanted me to see if you'd like to come with us." She shot a small smile towards Teagan, who bowed his head graciously.

"Go with you where?"

"The windmill," she said quietly, her fingers absently roaming over the embellishments on his collar. "She says that she has a surprise."

Cailan's smile widened even further. "Of course. Just give me a moment."

Nodding, Isobel turned and made her way back in the direction of the others. He couldn't hear her, but she no doubt told them that he'd be going along, as he saw Arryn give a single clap before resting her hands over her chest. Standing, he tucked his chair in and allowed himself be pulled into a tight, familiar hug. A large hand smoothed over his back; the embrace was firm, but warm.

"I'm proud of you, Cailan," Teagan murmured, giving his back a pat before pulling just far enough away to rest both hands on his shoulders. "Your mother would be proud of you, too."

Cailan felt the back of his eyes burn, but nothing came of the feeling. Instead, he set his hands on his uncle's arms and gave his head a slight bow. "Thank you, Teagan," he murmured, voice breaking only slightly as he smoothed over the thick fabric of his shirt. "That... truly means a lot to me."

He left Teagan to sit back down at the table, only letting himself linger long enough to share another, smaller smile with his uncle before heading in the direction of those gathered at the end of the room. Arryn and Alistair were already out of the Hall, no doubt heading in the direction of this surprise the mage mentioned. He stepped up just as Godfrey gave Isobel's shoulder a pat.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked. He felt refreshed, almost chipper, after hearing those words from Teagan. "Should I leave you two alone?"

Godfrey gave a bark of a laugh, and Isobel followed suit, though she was much quieter. Her chin dipped down for a moment, her lips twisting into a full smile, though it smoothed away when she looked back up at him. "He was only congratulating me on my new armor, is all." Twisting her face towards Godfrey, she arched a brow before nudging him with her elbow. "He's jealous, I think."

The soldier uttered a sound of mock offense, drawing a chuckle out of Cailan. "_When_ this is all over and done with, my friend, you will have armor just as sound as Isobel's. I swear it."

"Herren is going to want your hide for that, you know," she murmured, just loud enough for both of them to hear. "I thought he was going to launch himself over the counter when Alistair and I walked into the shop. 'Maker preserve us, we're going to go _broke_ if you keep closing down the shop, Wade!'"

"Yes, but if I remember correctly, from your account, Master Wade was beside himself with glee."

"Practically prancing around his forge," Isobel said with another laugh.

They paused for a moment, their thoughts merging to a single point. What would come of Wade and Herren? Of their shop? Of Denerim's market place? Of _Denerim_? Riordan's sighting brought everything to a resounding brilliance. The future of Ferelden was sharp; two-sided. Defeating the darkspawn and killing the archdemon would lead to happiness, even in the wake of loss. Being defeated would leave the Blight in another country's hands. Everything anyone had ever fought for, ever strove for, would be gone.

Godfrey – Maker bless him – was the one to break the quiet. Taking a step back towards the large door that led deeper into the estate, he cleared his throat. "Arryn said that we should hurry. I'm not sure what she's come up with, but I don't think we want to miss it."

"No," Cailan said, "I don't think we do. Lead the way."

After making their way from the castle to the windmill countless times during their different stays in Redcliffe, the three soon found their way through the secret passage. It was still cold and still damp, and Cailan still seemed less than pleased to have to walk through it. This in itself was enough to keep their spirits up as they trekked through near complete darkness, led by Godfrey, who held a torch. Midway through the passage, Isobel heard a scuffle behind her; the sound was quickly followed by the feeling of Cailan's finger attempting to trace one of the lines formed deep in her palm.

When they finally reached the windmill, they discovered that Arryn had planned ahead. Three torches dotted the grassy hill, illuminating the shadowed area beneath the mill just enough for them to see where they were walking. In her hands she held two bottles of wine, plucked up with permission from Eamon's thoroughly stocked cellar.

They really shouldn't be drinking, not with the march ahead of them and the battle that would follow. Still, something within Isobel thrilled at the idea of enjoying the moment, something she scarcely allowed herself before everything that transpired. To drink no doubt fine Orlesian wine while sitting on a hilltop beneath a blanket of stars... It almost seemed indulgent. If there was one thing the Blight taught her, it was that those petty indulgences, the small moments of respite before everything turns for the worst, were often the sweetest.

Cailan bowed his head to Arryn as she passed off one of the bottles to him, leaving her to be very nearly swept off of her feet by a flushed Godfrey and set down some distance away. Taking the slender neck of the bottle into his palm, he worked at the cork for a moment before pausing and looking to Isobel.

She was standing in front of him, her hands laced, looking expectantly towards the wine. When she realized he wasn't working it any longer, she glanced up to him, brow hitched.

A mere moment after their eyes met, his shifted, roaming away from her face to look over her shoulder. Alistair was sitting on the ground a good distance away from Arryn and Godfrey, his legs bent, arms wrapped around his knees. From here, he couldn't tell if he was looking up at the sky or across at the castle, but the direction of his eyes didn't matter. The lack of a smile on his face was what mattered.

"You should go talk to him," Cailan offered after a brief silence. His brows knitted together once the words left him. Had he really just said that? Did he mean it? While he was sure that he did mean it, he was unsure what to make of it. This very well could be his last night of peace to spend with Isobel, and he was sending her off? His own confusion was only amplified by the fact that he'd been looking forward to tonight. He had made plans of his own – to bring Isobel back to the chambers given to him by Eamon, to spend that night deliriously happy with no worries on the horizon. And now he was telling her she should go to Alistair.

Isobel seemed even more confused than he, if only for a short time. When his words finally registered, she reached out, her palms working against his upper arms before she leaned forward to press a small, tender kiss on his lips. "I will be back."

He was sure that he didn't deserve this woman. After all he'd put her through, heaped upon every other trial that hindered her stride, she never once complained. She purposely understated her on weaknesses in order to make the situation less uncomfortable, no matter how she felt herself. When he'd first handed her the Cousland family shield, she slipped it on, speechless as she tried to think of what to say. Finally, she shifted it on her arm and gave a shaking laugh. 'I don't remember it being this heavy,' she'd told him, her tears contradicting the laugh in her voice.

And now he watched her as she made her way towards Alistair, perhaps even giving up tonight's last hurrah at reaching for some semblance of calm, to talk to him.

He didn't deserve her. No one did. They needed her, but they didn't deserve her.

Alistair looked up at her as she approached, a half-smile tilting at his lips as she sat down next to him. "You don't have to do this, you know." When she gave him an incredulous expression, he uttered a huff of a laugh. "Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about. Cailan sent you over here to talk to me."

"Don't you think I'd be able to defy the wishes of the king, hm?" she asked. "He brought it up, yes, but I wanted to."

"I can accept that."

He turned away from her, arms still wrapped around his knees as he tilted his chin upwards, eyes taking in the ceiling of tiny, faraway lights. "Arryn said there's to be a comet. I don't rightly believe her." It sounded as if he was talking to himself, but Isobel listened as best she could, drinking up every word that left him. "That'd be good timing. Suspiciously good timing, if you ask me."

"Do you really think she'd lie to us about something like that?" Isobel asked him as she pulled her own legs into a crossed position, fingers thrumming along her calves.

"There's a chance." Alistair shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. "All she need do is go, 'Ooh! There it was! Did you see that? Oh, well, you must've missed it. What a shame.' And none of us would be any the wiser, would we?"

Laughing, Isobel shook her head. "No, I don't believe we would."

Her admission fell into silence. While Alistair took in the sky, she looked to the others. Cailan was sitting some way off, the wine bottle poised in one hand as he propped himself up with the other. Pale blonde hair splayed over his shoulder, a stark contrast to both his navy tunic and the darkness that surrounded him. Arryn and Godfrey sat in front of them. With an arm wrapped around her shoulder, Godfrey leaned his cheek against the top of her head. Turning her eyes just far enough to the side to catch his profile, she saw that there was another hint of a smile curling at Alistair's mouth.

"I have something to ask you," he said softly, passing his tongue over his bottom lip before continuing. "It may seem unnecessary, but... I felt that you of all people would be one of the only people interested, I suppose? There aren't many left who would-"

Reaching out, she rested her hand on Alistair's arm, effectively silencing him. "What is it?"

"Well, I'd sort of... come up with a plan, once the Blight was over and done with," he prefaced, eyes darting from her face to her hand and then back to the sky, staying there instead of waiting for her to move. "Duncan mentioned once that he had family in Highever, I believe. I was going to go there and do something for him, in his memory." His chin met his shoulder as he turned his face to look at her. "I want it to happen. Even if it's not me, he deserves a proper burial or _something_."

The hand that rested on Alistair's forearm began to move up and down as he spoke, finally slowing only to grip at his sleeve in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. "Of course I will." Pausing, she released his arm only to give it a pat. "No. _No_. You will. It wouldn't be a proper memorial if you weren't there."

_If only survival was that certain_, Alistair found himself thinking. _How can she be so optimistic? Am I wrong here, or is she? Why does any of this even matter?_

"Thank you," he replied, his tone quiet and almost shy. Taking a deep breath, he released it in a single puff, straightening his posture as best he could in his current position. "Well, enough about me. What about you? Why do you want to be over here? You'd have to be blind not to notice that lonely pup look on Cailan's face."

He glanced around the curve of her shoulder to get an actual look at Cailan only to find that there _was_ no look of loneliness on his features. He didn't look sad or put out or even the slightest bit regretful about his current position. He was half-reclined on the hill, staring up at the stars with blatant reverence, only lifting the bottle of wine to his lips every now and again. So his half-brother was actually okay with her staying in his company. Cailan had never struck him as the sort for sharing, but the king seemed set on surprising even people who'd known him as a child. Even Eamon, who could have caused a golem to cringe should they enter a staring contest, softened noticeably when he saw the change in his nephew. The people of Ferelden loved Cailan – they'd always loved Cailan – but there was something different there now, something akin to respect.

Suddenly the feeling made sense. He'd been there personally to see the change, the slow transition from a boy playing king to a man actually _being_ king.

"You're my _friend_, Alistair. I'm not going to just leave you over here by yourself." A smile teased at Isobel's mouth. The ex-templar's penchant for chewing on his toes always amused her, even if it frequently led to his embarrassment. "And I'd like to point out that _you _were the one wearing a lonely pup face."

"Oh, was I? I hadn't noticed. I was too busy over here, contemplating my impending death."

All it took was a sharp elbow to the ribs for his air of solemnity to break completely, a strident laugh filling the air that was more a rush of adrenaline than anything. "Ow! Maker's breath, woman, I need those."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot more you need that might go missing if you don't stop talking about that." Her mock-defensive tone went quiet soon after, and she bit down on her bottom lip, looking away from him again. "You don't know what's going to happen. You don't _know_ the future. None of us do. That's sort of the point here, you realize."

After all they'd been through, she couldn't imagine losing him now. She didn't want to. Letting go was _not_ an option. Riordan had offered to strike the final blow, didn't he? That meant that Alistair would be safe. She repeated this thought to herself over and again. The words 'Alistair will be safe' flooded her with memories. Each recollection had long since lost their color, leaving nothing but cloudy black and white, but that was all she needed. She could just barely hear his conversation with the mage at Ostagar, with the witch of the Wilds. She could see him strike a killing blow on an ogre, standing beside her as she accepted Teagan's thanks. Everything pressed forward at a breakneck speed until she could see herself in his arms, being lifted from that table in Fort Drakon and carried all the way to the camp just outside of Denerim. Their conversation about what Riordan told him and Cailan led to an argument; she could see her face, skewed as she shouted at him, told him that he couldn't strike the final blow, that it should be her. This left a warm blur into tonight, discussing the finer points of Orlesian cooking. Orlesian cheese, they'd decided, was the very best.

These memories only sparked a single, violent compulsion within her. _Don't let him go. Don't let him do this. He saved your life; save his._

When he turned to look at her, a witty retort poised on his lips, he saw that her eyes were glassy, full with tears to the point of nearly spilling.

"Iso..."

The skin on her chin wrinkled as she bit back her quivering bottom lip. She shook her head, the heels of her palms digging mercilessly into her eyes, removing the tears before they were shed. Wiping her hands on her trousers, she looked at him. "You're not going to die," she stated; her voice had gone leaden. In her words there was an air of finality that struck him in more ways than one. He was touched, but he was also afraid. What did she mean by that? Would she even consider going against what they'd decided?

"You just told me that I don't know the future." Swallowing thickly, he looked away from her, unable to focus on her profile any longer. "Neither do you. Even if Riordan succeeds and strikes the final blow, that doesn't mean I'll survive. The archdemon isn't the only thing we're fighting."

"You're _not_ going to die." This repetition was filled with whatever emotion the previous one lacked. Her words dipped and wove and broke beneath the weight of the sentiment. There was a striking plea beneath what she said that caused his own eyes to burn.

He'd seen her in many different situations. He'd seen her smile and laugh. He'd seen her cry. He'd seen her scream out in pain, and he'd seen her so broken she could hardly say a word. But this – this was something else entirely. It was all of that and more. It was heavy, and it curled in the very center of his chest, weighing his shoulders down.

When Alistair was finally able to speak, he did so quietly, afraid that what he said would lose all of its power if spoken in anything more than a whisper. "I won't if you don't."

His resolve shuddered the moment he felt her cheek come to rest against his shoulder. Lifting a hand to run his fingers through his hair, he discreetly wiped at his eye in the same motion. His gaze fell to his arm to find that her hand was set in the crook of it, and without a single thought, he placed his own hand on top of it. "I feel like I've said this more than I should have already tonight, but... thank you." Nodding to himself, he shifted a little, just far enough to look down at her. "My brother's a lucky man."

At that, he felt her cheek twitch against his shoulder, saw a bright smile take up residence on her lips. "Yes, well, don't tell him that, or I'll never hear the end of it."

Laughing quietly, Alistair removed his hand from Isobel's. "He's a good man, but... don't you ever consider the fact that you deserve _more_? Does that even make sense?" He quirked a brow at himself, looking away from her to focus on the sky. "You deserve to be someone's one and only, is what I'm saying."

"You and Cailan are a lot more alike than you think."

The words were hardly more than murmured, but he had caught them. You wouldn't be able to miss such a seemingly random thread of conversation.

"Hm? Where'd that come from?" he asked her, twisting his shoulders to look at her instead. He knew that he and his brother shared some striking similarities that could be attributed to their being cut from the same – or at least relatively similar – cloth, but these were minor, inconsequential things he didn't expect anyone to pick up on. Of course, considering her closeness to Cailan and their friendship, it shouldn't have surprised him at all.

The smile on her face was so slight he almost missed it. "He said the exact same thing only a few days ago."

A string of laughter bubbled out of her at his indignant huff, the tiny smile widening into a grin as he crossed his arms as if mimicking a petulant child. His voice took on a similar sullen tone. "That's not fair. That was supposed to be my line. He's not supposed to steal my lines."

From in front of them, they heard a loud, "Ooh!" Jerking to attention, they both stared, wide-eyed, up at the sky, but they were only met with the same expanse of black and white. Isobel shifted in her spot, looking to Arryn instead to see the tiny elven mage twisted in Godfrey's arm, staring back at them with a wide smile. "Did you two see it? Ah, it was... it was _wonderful_. Wasn't it Godfrey?"

"Indeed it was." It was obvious by the soldier's voice that he believed what he said, even through his obvious annoyance at her stealing away the attention she'd bestowed on him so completely mere moments before. Tonight was supposed to be for them; he shouldn't be forced to share.

Arryn was pulled into his lap soon after, diverting her attention from Alistair and Isobel to the man beside her. Or, rather, beneath her.

"I told you she was lying," Alistair murmured.

The same sharp elbow was poised just beside his ribs when she changed her mind, wrapping her arms around him instead. Planting his forehead against the warm curve of her neck, Alistair sighed into the embrace. There was no jealousy, no ill-will towards his half-brother for ensnaring her attention. Tonight was their last night of assured freedom, and she'd gone to him, sat and talked with _him_.

While it wasn't much, it was enough.

* * *

**A/N: **Holy _Maker_, that was quite a bit longer than I expected! (Longest chapter of The Beacon yet, actually!) And I hope you enjoyed it. :) Thank you all again for your encouraging reviews. It looks as though it may be wrapping up sooner than I expected, but you can expect at least two more chapters after this one. Next stop - Denerim!


	26. Chapter 26

When they arrived in Denerim, the city was in flames.

No matter how many times he saw houses and shops engulfed in fire, he would never be able to keep the sight from shaking him to the bones.

As the king, he rode at the very head of the march, flanked on one side by Godfrey and on the other by Isobel and Alistair. His shoulders and back ached from the strain of keeping his posture erect as they rode towards the capital. Beneath the heavy golden armor and the thick purple cloak, he felt as though he was being dragged to the ground instead of held above it, his knuckles grinding up against the unyielding curve of his gauntlets as he tightened his hands into fists around the reins.

The mount's steady trot faltered the slightest bit, both from sensing his rider's unease and smelling the smoke in the air. For days, he'd ridden atop this horse, stopping only to sleep and lead him to water, but they were still not used to each other. The beginnings of trust between man and mount were rocky at best; they'd been forced to forge a partnership in mere hours, leaving both of them uncertain.

Loosening his grip on the reins, Cailan ran a heavy hand along the neck of the beast, jaw working as his eyes scanned over the high walls that surrounded the city. Even at this distance, he could see chunks missing from the stone, torn away as if made of wafer instead.

He'd seen what the darkspawn were capable of. The Blight was proof enough of that. Everything they touched turned to black. Flesh became necrotic. Flowers and grass wilted. Buildings were torn down until they were nothing but piles of ash-covered rocks. They would continue doing this until they were stopped. If they were not defeated here, they would turn his entire country into a Blight-diseased wasteland, and he would not have that. He _would_ stop them. What was once false pride bled surely into rage at the sight of what they were doing to his people.

When they reached the largest hill overlooking the main entrance to the city, Cailan stopped and dismounted. The others followed soon after. They were here. This was the culmination of all they'd been through, their final attempt at crippling the darkspawn army. If they had their way, they would scatter them in such a way that they'd all go scrambling back to the Deep Roads.

Eamon was the first to speak to him. "You intend to give a speech, yes?" his uncle asked, "Your Godfrey shared word of the last speech you gave your men. He claims you have all of your father's eloquence and verve." There was even a hint of a _smile_ in the corner of Eamon's mouth despite his otherwise serious expression. "They will need it on this day, Cailan. We will all need it."

"I have much to say," he admitted, "Though I had hoped to speak to you about a matter beforehand." He paused, glancing towards Isobel. She was standing some distance off, her bare hands wrapped around Alistair's gauntleted ones. No matter how much he tried to smother down the beginnings of jealousy, knowing full well that today may be his brother's last, he couldn't help but feel a distinct burning when he saw her press her forehead to his. He didn't know what she was telling him, nor would he pry later. This was talk between Wardens and between friends, and he had no place to intrude. "I will be taking Isobel with me."

The arl narrowed his eyes at his nephew, unsure what to think of his intentions. "She is one of the last Grey Wardens," Eamon said slowly. "If both Riordan and Alistair should fall before the archdemon is slain?"

"Both of them will not fail."

"Do you know more of the future than I, Cailan? Have you seen what lies ahead?"

This was Eamon in true form. "This was not a _request_, Eamon. I said that I will be taking Isobel with me. I suggest you not question my choices, and certainly not with that tone of condescension."

His uncle pulled back his shoulders. "Very well. Take Isobel with you, your Majesty. You will need a Warden by your side."

Moving to Isobel's side, Cailan was just able to catch the very end of the conversation between the two Wardens. A fist curled around his heart at the sound of Alistair's voice, but it was what he asked that twisted the organ in his chest. "If... things were different, if something had changed...?" The hopeful lilt in his voice was all he had to hear in order to understand the subject of the question.

While he couldn't see Isobel's face from where he stood, he could only imagine what she looked like at that exact moment. He could imagine her eyes, green as anything, perhaps a little wet. He could practically _see_ the entreating tenderness in them. Her lips would be parted, torn between saying something and staying silent. No matter the fact that she hadn't spoken a word, her answer would be written all over her expression. _Yes_.

That was enough for him. He knew that there was a chance he wouldn't return. Letting go of a heavy sigh, Alistair nodded, giving Isobel's hand a pat before nodding in Cailan's direction.

Isobel turned around, a small, reassuring smile curling at her mouth. "What did Eamon say?" she asked, letting go of Alistair's hands in favor of turning towards Cailan. "I assume by the look on your face that you're not entirely pleased with it."

"He thought my decision was up for discussion," Cailan replied almost curtly. "It wasn't. You'll be leaving soon with the first contingent of guards. I will be with the second."

She nodded, hands laced in front of her. "Understood."

The first group of guards was gathered, and they departed even sooner than both Alistair and Isobel expected. They repeated their goodbyes. She spent a few lingering moments with her arms wrapped around his neck, her cheek pressed to his. "Show that archdemon it shouldn't mess with the Grey Wardens, won't you?" she murmured directly into his ear, blinking back the few tears that gathered in her eyes. "Duncan-" Her voice caught on the name, and she felt him wrap his arms even tighter around her waist. "Duncan would be so proud of you, Al. Remember that."

"Are you?" he asked her. Even through his armor, he could feel her entire body tremble, and he could feel her damp cheek move against his as she nodded over and over again. Smoothing his hand up the length of her back, he smiled. "Your _guards_ are staring at us. D'you think they're jealous?"

"Of me, no doubt," she whispered, though her voice was still strained. "I... should go. Good-"

She felt herself jerked backwards, his heavy hands clutching at her waist. "He-ey, don't say that. Say 'see you later.' That's much more optimistic."

Leaning forward, Isobel bumped her forehead against his, a smile breaking out onto her face. "See you later."

While Alistair could have charged into Denerim with Isobel's words alone, the other men and women gathered were not so easily instilled with confidence. They required the king's thrilling speeches. They needed to know that what they were doing would change history, that they would be _remembered_. That in itself would put enough steel in their spines to defeat two darkspawn hordes.

They were all standing, waiting and watching as Denerim burned and their king took point at the head of those gathered. Only two people gathered there had seen Cailan before the battle of Ostagar. Only two of them were able to see exactly how much he'd changed. He seemed taller, almost larger than life, a giant in both figure and presence. And when he spoke, every scrap of boyish innocence had faded from his voice, revealing a fierceness that surprised even Eamon.

"Good people of Ferelden!" he began, his hands gripping at the railing separating the low balcony from a single part of his army. Even now, after only four words, they were beginning to shift in their place. A few men knocked their fists on their shields. Some shouted wordless praise. "I have spent most of my life dreaming of victory over impossible odds."

The king's voice bellowed out over those gathered, sending a ripple of response through the crowd. Everyone here knew of the king's near death at Ostagar, of that battle's impossible odds. "When I was informed that a Blight would sweep across my beloved country, I thought I was prepared. I thought I had the mettle to go up against such a force. I _knew_ I would wipe them out in one fell swoop."

"I was _wrong_!" Another ripple ran through the crowd. There was a shout near the front degrading that "bastard Loghain," which earned the crier a round of positive response. "But at Ostagar," he continued, his voice softening despite the volume remaining the same. "Our numbers were few. We fought hard, but we were overwhelmed. Today, that is not the case."

The moment a proud smile spread across his lips, the soldiers near the front punched their fists into the air. "Human, elven, dwarven. Soldier, archer, mage. We fight _together_, and we are _not_ outnumbered!"

Passing his tongue over his lips, Cailan leaned forward, grasping the railing until he could feel his knuckles grinding against his gauntlets. "This Blight is not the Blight of centuries past. We do not have the Grey Warden forces to protect us. We do not have the luxury to cower inside of our homes and wait until the Blight is destroyed."

At that, he turned and began making his way down the few stairs leading him to stand directly in front of the first line of soldiers. "But that will not stop us! That will not keep us from glory! This is _our_ Blight, and _we __**will**__ end it!"_

Even before the final word left his mouth, the soldiers erupted in a cheer so loud he thought he would go deaf. The ground _shook_ beneath their pounding feet. The sound of their fists pounding on their shields sounded like thunder.

It was fitting, he realized, that they would meet the darkspawn sounding like a storm, for this storm would wipe them from the face of Thedas.

* * *

When he returned to Eamon's estate, Isobel was waiting for him. He was breathless by the time he got to their room, but confusion rendered him unable to draw air entirely. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, red head bowed, her eyes focused on the sword in her lap. He'd expected to arrive and tell her to put on her armor in case the darkspawn spread even further than they hoped. He hadn't expected to see her already dressed. Even her helm sat beside her on the bed.

Brows cinching downward, Cailan took a step into the room, shutting the door soundly behind them. "I rode here as fast as I could," he said. The hesitance in his voice was what pulled her stare away from her blade. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and he felt his heart sink in his chest. What was she doing? Why was she dressed? These questions swirled in his mind so quickly he didn't even know where to begin. " What— what are you doing?"

She stood to her full height, reminding him just how intimidating she could look in a full set of armor. Even with her hair still down and her eyes still glassy, she cut an impressive figure. "I wanted to be ready," she murmured, her voice thick.

"So... that's it? You're not going to be joining the battle?"

Her features skewed, and she uttered a quiet huff. "Cailan." She sounded strained, as if her will was close to dissolving altogether. "I told you that I would stay. I... can help fight stragglers, but I'm not stupid enough to run into the horde when I'm not ready."

Somehow, hearing her say that didn't make him feel any better. There was an uncertainty there that told him she _would_ be out there fighting if her confidence hadn't taken such a blow, if she didn't have to worry about slipping or about hesitating. Not only would she have fought, but she'd have struck the final blow, as well. "I just-" he cut himself off with a sigh, "– I want you to stay here."

It was her turn to wrinkle her brows. "I am staying here."

"You can't be out there. You have to stay here."

Reaching out after sheathing her sword, Isobel grabbed him by the shoulders. The glassiness in her eyes had disappeared entirely, leaving behind a fierce light that he didn't remember ever being directed at him. "I _am_ staying here, Cailan," she pressed, a finality to her words. She knew when to play the hero, just as she knew when to sit off to the side and let others take the reins.

It took her a moment to realize who she was staring at. The king in him had given way to a little boy. His blue eyes were full of terrified innocence. She'd never seen him look so unsure. "There were so many of them," he said, letting out a quiet breath as his eyes fell away from hers. "I haven't seen so many darkspawn since Ostagar. And there's fire. Everywhere." The tremble in his voice broke completely, and he was forced to clear his throat. "If we could've gotten here sooner... If we'd never left..."

She couldn't even begin to imagine what seeing this must have felt like for him. Ostagar had been nothing but crumbling ruins. Denerim was the capital city of _his_ country. Seeing this destruction, knowing that he could have stopped it, could not have been easy to swallow.

"We had to leave," she murmured, "We thought the horde was heading to Redcliffe. If we hadn't left and it _had_ gone to Redcliffe, the entire city would've been destroyed."

"Like this one?"

The hard edge to Cailan's voice very nearly cut her. Isobel pursed her lips to stop their trembling, fingers twitching in her gauntlets. Lifting her eyes back up to his, she tilted her head to the side in order to catch them. "_Cailan_. Stop. Please." She reached out. Her hands grasped at his arms, and she gave him a shake. "This isn't your _fault_. There was nothing you could do to change what's happened. We can rebuild. We _will_ rebuild. Denerim will be as it was. It'll be like the Blight never touched it."

When he looked at her, she could tell that he believed what she said. The deep lines between his brows smoothed away, and he reached up to rest his hands on her arms just as she did his. "I don't think I would've survived this long without your help, Iso." Wetting his lips, he swallowed thickly, "Thank you."

Just as she opened her mouth to tell him that his thanks weren't necessary, he leaned forward. All of her own fears were smoothed away when she felt his mouth pressed against her forehead.

In a single, simple kiss, a revelation turned within her.

The Blight would soon be over.

* * *

**A/N: **I apologize for the wait! I do have an explanation, however. Or an excuse, if you see fit to call it that. It's very difficult to post up chapter twenty six when you've finished twenty seven before it. Hahah. Oh, muse, you are a fickle you-know-what. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, though! Is it horrible that I'm so shamelessly proud of Cailan's speech? Or should I shut my mouth and go sit in my little writer's corner? ;)

So, with that in mind, you should expect chapter twenty-seven in a few days! You won't have to wait two weeks for this one, I _promise_.

Also, for those who weren't aware, I posted up a Cailan/Isobel one-shot a few days ago. It's called "A Humble Pilgrim," and should be just below "The Beacon" in my profile. Hurr hurr, /shameless self-promotion.


	27. Chapter 27

"They've broken through the barricade!"

It never failed to surprise Isobel how a handful of choice words could send ice right into her veins. She was prepared; completely so. Still, that did not stop her heart from clenching in her chest. It didn't stop her stomach from flipping and blood to pound in her ears.

The darkspawn were there. They'd passed this section of the city in favor of Fort Drakon and the marketplace before now. While these may have been only stragglers, spread out to wreak as much havoc as they could manage, they were still _there_ and still incredibly dangerous. A small group of darkspawn could wipe out the entire estate by taking them by surprise, and they were hardly ready to defend against anything larger. They didn't have the numbers. They didn't have the plans.

She could feel a chill slip down her spine the moment she heard the same guard shout again.

"And they have an emissary with them!"

"Gather the men!"

Isobel's hand flew out to grip the pauldron of the head guard. "Send the archers up top to give cover fire," she ordered, tearing her eyes away from his face as she ran over thoughts in her head. They didn't have a mage; Arryn was with Alistair and the others. Two archers, one of which was decently trained, and eight heavily armed guardsmen on her side of the estate – the side they'd broken through. Her eyes narrowed at the wall in front of her as the man waited few precious seconds for her to gather herself. "Four. I need four men. Tell the others to wait until I give the order."

With a solid clang, her gauntlet impacted the man's back and he set off in the direction of his men. She turned towards the room she'd just left to see Anora and the other women staring at her. The queen was in full armor, though she was unarmed, her sword lying off to the side.

"Stay here," Isobel told her, though she tried her best to keep her voice quiet to soften the blow of her giving the queen orders. "Watch the women and children." Turning her eyes onto the others in the room, she could see them shifting under their own apprehension, terror scrawled across their features. "I will make sure the darkspawn do not breach the estate. You will all be safe. I swear it on my life."

"Is it really wise to say such things, Warden?" Anora asked her. "The outcome of this battle is not known."

Taking a deep breath and releasing it in a sigh, Isobel took a step out of the room before looking back to her. There was no acid in her voice nor in her stare. "You are incorrect, your Majesty. I know exactly how this battle will end."

At that, she turned, and she left. The moment the door was shut and latched behind her, the silence in the room burst, voices rising and skirts rustling so loudly Anora nearly wanted to plug her ears.

The Warden's strides were long as she made her way through the winding hallways of Eamon's estate in the direction of the back gates. While she knew the darkspawn were dumb as rocks, they'd made a wonderfully bright mistake by going to the back gates instead of the front ones. There, Cailan and a dozen guards were _waiting_ for a group to pass by. Of course, as luck would have it, the creatures happened upon the poorly guarded side of the estate. Isobel was half sure the Maker was doing this on purpose.

When she reached the double doors leading out into the back, her hand went to the sword at her hip, fingers twisting around the grip and drawing it out of its scabbard. The first clash of metal upon metal rang out not a heartbeat after her boot hit the ground. As she moved forward, shouting to the others to watch for the cover fire, she heard an arrow whiz past, burying itself into the shoulder of a genlock.

The creature staggered backward a step from the strength of the blow only to lash out with his dagger at the guard before him only a moment later.

Her eyes skimmed over the small stretch of land. Nine. There were nine genlocks, not including the genlock emissary standing departed from the crowd. They were only slightly outnumbered, but with the addition of an emissary, they would be forced to deal with healing magic.

Her attention was jerked back to the present when she saw a blur of silver aimed directly at her. Parrying the blow at the last second, she gave the genlock a swift kick to the chest. It was just enough to knock him down, giving her the time she needed to remove the shield from her back. The creature clambered up to his feet again only to pursue her with quicker strikes, most of them deflected by her shield. He landed only a single blow across her forearm, and she gritted her teeth against the burning feeling that spread down into her wrist.

When she saw that it was time to strike her own blow, the genlock's armor split like a block of wood beneath her blade. One cut and then two and the genlock fell to its knees; a short burst of dark blood gushed from its mouth, dripping in thin streams from between his gnarled teeth.

A sneer curled at her mouth as she glanced up from the body. The guards were shouldering the brunt of the attack. Only five of the genlocks remained, clustering around the four guards. Four. Her pulse spiked. Where was the captain?

Her eyes went wide when she heard a shriek in the distance. She looked to the emissary only to see a suit of silverite armor fall to its knees, nearly crumpling in on itself the moment it hit the ground. The genlock's arms were in the air, the end of its staff glowing a deep purple as it finished its incantation. The arrows buried into its armor slowly began to reemerge, sliding out of its flesh only to fall to the ground at its feet. Each time another arrow fell, the captain gave another scream, his gauntlets digging into the dirt in front of his knees.

"Concentrate on the grunts!" Her voice bellowed over the clanging of swords and cries of pain – both human and otherworldly. The shout reached the archers, and they turned their attention towards the others, set on aiding the guards in wiping them out.

She'd fought emissaries before. While his wounds were being healed by each pain he pressed into the captain, his mana would drain. It would drain, and he'd be helpless. But she had to get to him before he sucked the strength right out of him.

Before she was able to reach the emissary, her run kicking up dust with each heavy footfall, she saw a genlock turn around and lash out at her in an attempt to slow her down. His dagger glanced off of her long sword without any more than a dull clang. She skidded to a halt, the weight of her armor pulling her forward until she dug her toes forward to stop herself, and she turned just enough to poise her sword to drive it into his throat when she heard the distinct, grating sound of pain the genlocks often made.

Her eyes fell to the creature's stomach. Just below his collarbone, a slender silver blade protruded from between the creases in his armor. It'd been stuck through so quickly that not the slightest hint of blood coated the sword. Glancing up to the guard, she gave him a curt nod before turning and taking off in a run.

By now, the guard captain was nearly lying face down in the dirt. She could see his shoulders shaking as he dry heaved from the pain of the emissary's magic. Stopping in her tracks some distance off, she palmed her sword into her left hand and reached for the dagger in her belt. Her teeth pressed down onto her tongue as she lifted it up, eyes narrowed as she tried to concentrate. She had horrible aim, but missing the target was worth the possibility of distracting him enough to stop the spell.

The dagger flew through the air after a flick of the wrist. While she'd been aiming for his stomach, the blade of it cut deep into the creature's thigh. The spell was broken; the purple light disappeared immediately.

With the emissary staggering back, Isobel had enough time to rush forward. She gripped her sword and her shield, and she _pushed_. Running in such heavy armor was almost impossible for a woman of her size. The adrenaline pumping so hard in her veins she could taste it proved otherwise.

Genlocks, she found, did not retreat. Even as they saw their brethren being cut down on all sides, their fight or flight response was cut down to a single option. Fight; even if you have a longsword inches from your neck. When she finally grew closer to the creature, the emissary's hands began to glow blue, and her heart twisted into a knot in her chest. She did not stop running towards him.

She could hear her shield splinter as she pushed forward, the only barrier between her and the tendrils of blue-white that were launched in her direction.

The lightning stopped, and the emissary grabbed for its staff a second time only to hear a disheartening sizzle and pop when nothing left it. No spell, no wisp. _Nothing_. His mana drained entirely, he settled for lashing out at her with the gnarled end of the staff, impacting her shield hard enough for her ears to be filled with another crack.

Thrusting outward, she watched as the emissary stumbled backwards, watched as his meaty fists clawed at the ground beneath him, trying in vain to climb up onto his feet again. He was struggling, and for a moment, Isobel found herself enjoying the sight. She stood there, precious seconds ticking by as her feet rooted her into the ground. Her sword was gripped at her side, poised to strike yet unmoving. Even if these things were less than dwarven or elven or human or whatever they were made from, they still feared when death was upon them. They knew to be afraid, unsure of what would happen once the blade sunk in.

It did not take long for the genlock's skewed, ugly face to change into something more familiar and even more haunting. She no longer saw a darkspawn lying on the ground before her, but Howe. He stared up at her with black eyes, a smear of red beneath the hook of his nose. He looked scared. Terrified, even. The sight warmed her from the inside.

She was so caught up in watching the fear in those black eyes that she didn't see the emissary lift his hand again. She didn't see the blue glow. She didn't see the lightning, either. She felt it.

Pain shot up her thighs the moment she fell to her knees, but that was nothing compared to the surge of energy that coursed over her armor, spreading and leaving what felt like _fire_ in its wake. Her sight clouded and throat burned. She heard herself screech for help, but she couldn't hear the words. She could barely feel them on her tongue.

A sickening crunch preceded a sudden lack of sound. She barely caught it, her heavy head jerking upwards to see an arrow protruding from between the emissary's eyes only to fall back down a moment later, her eyes slowly regaining focus on the bent, scorched blades of grass that lay in her shadow.

She felt herself being pulled up by four distinct hands what felt like minutes later. It could have been longer; it could have been seconds. Taking a deep breath, she let them steady her before her attention turned to the guard captain. He was still on his hands and knees, his entire body visibly trembling even beneath his bulky armor. "Tend to him," she murmured, her voice little more than a quiet rasp. She groped blindly at her waist once she'd sheathed her sword, handing one of the guard's a strong poultice Arryn had given her that morning. "I'll report to the king."

Not bothering to stay long enough to see after the captain, Isobel wrapped an arm around her shield. It wouldn't do her any good now. Cracks were splintered throughout the Cousland family crest. One swift hit was all it would take and its be nothing but sticks and pieces of scrap metal.

Her footsteps must have been heavier than she intended, as she saw a figure step into her path not long after entering the estate.

"Anora, you should be with the others," she murmured, twisting past the queen. She knew the woman would follow her, if only to preserve her dignity.

"Until the battle was over," Anora reminded her, keeping up without much difficulty despite the difference in the womens' sizes. "Seeing that the battle is over, your _orders_ hold no weight, Warden."

Isobel paused. She didn't turn to look at her. She didn't sneer, scoff, or even so much as blink. When she spoke again, her tone was leaden. "The battle isn't over. The archdemon still lives. As long as the archdemon lives, the battle will continue. Now, please return to the others."

"I will not."

Arguing with the queen wasn't what she wanted, and so Isobel said nothing. She knew better. She'd toed the line between the knowledgeable Warden and insubordination once already. Instead, she continued on her way to the front of the estate, each stride more confident than the last as the hitch in her step faded into nothing.

By the time they reached their destination, she was some distance from Anora, pushing through the front doors only to be greeted by a rush of questions. The loudest inquiries came from Cailan himself, his expression skewed with worry. "Are you alright? The men - how are the men? You're _scorched_; what happened?"

Isobel clutched an arm tighter around her shield, jaw working as she stood in silence. He took her expression as she meant it, and he immediately turned to shout a string of orders at his men. They didn't seem taken aback by his sudden turn, but they'd seen the impassive look on her face, as well. That was enough to show them something was wrong. They dispersed soon after receiving the orders, leaving the two of them alone.

Cailan set a hand on her shoulder, his eyes falling to the shield. "Is it irreparable?"

"It was an _heirloom_. I was careless." Isobel shook her head, reaching up to remove her helm. Showing him she was fine was much easier when he could see her face. "But that's not why I came to see you. I came to tell you about what happened-"

Having not been given time to say what he wished, the king gave her a small, reassuring smile and an affectionate stroke on her shoulder. "Until this battle is over, I'd happily be your shield, hm?"

"Perhaps you should listen to her, husband."

Isobel watched as his blue eyes went wide, his flushed cheeks nearly draining of all color. Clearing his throat, he turned his attention again to the Warden, though his tone was one filled with less adoration. There was even a somber note buried deep within his words. Somewhere. "Yes. Of course. What did you have to tell me?"

"The captain has been incapacitated. I came to ask you if you could possibly bear to part with one of your men."

"Incapacitated?" Cailan asked her, brows knitting. "Exactly what were you facing back there? We've only seen genlocks and one or two hurlocks passing this way."

Isobel swallowed back the urge to tell him exactly what happened, choosing instead to give him the slightly altered version. "They had an emissary with them." Her voice hitched, but she cleared her throat and continued before he could even comment on it. "I didn't expect it to know such powerful magic."

"That explains the scorching on your shield, then," he murmured to himself, hand moving to tilt it at a better angle in an attempt to examine it. "Are you okay? Did he get to you?"

"He did, but... I'm fine."

Nodding, the king looked to Anora. Their eyes met, and yet he didn't move to look away. She didn't look angry. She didn't look upset or sad or worried. She looked confident. For once, he could tell that this confidence wasn't born of her own, but of belief in _him_. He could see in her eyes that she was... _proud_ of all that he'd done, of all that he'd accomplished.

He could feel his heart swell in his chest; not out of love for her, but out of an acceptance of what they would no doubt become. Despite the changes and despite how he felt about Isobel, Anora was still one of his closest friends.

_Friends_... It would be odd to think of her as such after so long of her being his wife.

All of a sudden, there was a chorus of shouts behind him. "Your Majesty!" "My King!" "King Cailan!"

"Cailan!" He felt Isobel's hand on his arm, pulling at him to gain his attention. When she let go, she pointed in the direction of Fort Drakon. He turned as he was bidden, and his jaw went completely slack at the sight.

A bright white beacon stretched as high into the sky as he could see, standing stark against the scarlet sky. The archdemon had fallen to the topmost point of the tower scarcely an hour before; could this mean...? Had they slain the archdemon? Was the Blight over? Would everything _truly_ be as it once was? Had Riordan struck the final blow, or was that Alistair's sword removing the head of that foul creature?

Cailan looked to Isobel to see her staring at the light, her eyes wide with something he couldn't quite place. Was it awe? Grief?

"It's over," she whispered, her voice trembling as surely as the tears that she was so desperately holding back. Turning to meet his gaze, her chest heaved in her breastplate, a shaking breath leaving her parted lips. There was something akin to a smile on her mouth. There was sadness, but there was also relief – a crashing flood of relief that he knew well. "Cailan, it's done."

Not a moment after the words left her, there was an explosion. The clouds surrounding the fort flew outwards, a ripple of white through the sky; this was followed by a crack and rumble unlike any thunderstorm he'd ever heard. And he knew she was right.


	28. Epilogue

"I have often claimed that any sacrifice is worth the price when the cause is just."

Isobel's knuckles were raw from where they rubbed against the inside of her gauntlets. Everything felt so small. Her breastplate seemed to be shrinking every time she took a breath. The ornamental armor felt heavier than anything she'd ever carried, as if there was some invisible weight weighing her down. If her pride would allow her, she would've fallen to her knees to sate whatever force strove to drive her downward.

Her throat was tight, a harsh burning spreading up her neck and across her chest. With every moment that passed, her breaths grew more shallow, her shoulders heavier. None of this compared to the pain hiding behind her eyes, holding back tears that wanted nothing more than to be shed. She could not. Every time she looked up from the ground before her feet, Cailan was looking at her. If she cried...

"From childhood I have heard tales of the Grey Wardens. Their sacrifices were legend to me, to everyone who heard of each Blight quelled."

His normally light voice had taken on a husky undertone. Each time his eyes scanned those gathered, his vision grew a little blurrier, his words a little more difficult to understand. But not once did he look to the slab before him. Why should he look there when he knew what he would find? Alistair would be lying there with Maric's blade in his hands, his armor shinier than it'd ever been, his face lacking the smile that was necessary to make it his.

Swallowing thickly, Cailan glanced towards the sky instead. He was sure that he'd never seen such beautiful weather. There was not a cloud in sight to obscure the stretch of brilliant azure. The wind was cool, shifting the branches in the trees and smelling of the upcoming fall.

"I never took the time to contemplate what was lost with each final blow," he continued, the lump in his throat forcing him to choke out the last words. He gave a quiet cough over his shoulder. "I never thought of the brother of the Warden, the man who grieved in the wake of his brother's glory, the man who cried out of joy for the Blight's end, but out of loss."

Isobel's shoulders shook, but only for a moment. They were stilled just after when an arm curled around them. She looked to her left to see Godfrey staring back at her, his dark eyes filled with sympathy. Without saying a word, he leaned closer to her, his forehead touching hers in a wordless gift of strength. When he pulled back, he placed a kiss onto her temple.

His arm remained until she felt her gauntlet moving, lifted and held in a tiny, elven hand. She looked to Arryn who gave her a small smile.

She took a slow breath that shook upon exhalation. Now was not the time for tears. After the Archdemon had been killed, she thought she'd wept herself dry. The sudden euphoria of success had crashed into the feeling of loss. After so many months of sensing Alistair near, to have that feeling torn away was jarring; painfully so. One moment he was there, and the next the was gone, like a flame snuffed out in a single rush of air.

"I was too young to consider the lover of that Warden, the mother and the father of that Warden. To those they loved, that Warden was a hero long before they gave themselves to end the Blight." It was then that his eyes went once again to Isobel. "With Alistair, it was no diff—"

This time, his voice did catch in his throat. The words stopped, unable to pass the ever-growing swell that was hindering his breathing. In the moment that he found he couldn't continue, Isobel looked up at him, and he saw that her cheeks were streaked and mottled with red. He cleared his throat. "It was no different. He was taken from us too early, before he'd reached his full potential. Possibilities were taken away from him. A chance at a life full of happiness was snatched away without even so much as an apology."

Isobel's eyes ran over the curve of Cailan's cheek, and she wished she could be up there, standing beside him. She wanted to give him strength as Godfrey and Arryn had given her. She couldn't imagine making a speech now, not in the middle of his grief and not with his half-brother resting on the marble slab in front of him.

"We must never forget what this man – this Grey Warden – gave up to save the lands that we call home."

At that, Cailan lowered his eyes to Alistair's body. Taking a shaky breath, he reached out to rest his hand upon his half-brother's gauntlet. Having him entombed in Weisshaupt with their father's sword just seemed _right_. So often recently, he'd made decisions that cost him much, but this would cost him nothing. The loss of Maric's sword was little in comparison to the hollowed feeling that came with knowing that his brother was dead.

Even if he had only just recently discovered this, their friendship over the months of travel only made more sense. They were so alike. Speaking to him had felt like he was simultaneously talking to his reflection and the ghost of their father.

Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. Complete strangers were the first to leave. Anora soon disappeared into the palace among many others. There was to be a celebratory feast at Alistair's behest. The night before they left Redcliffe, when they'd sat out to watch the stars, he'd mentioned that. Should he be the one who died, he didn't want a long, drawn-out service. He wanted a buffet."With a thousand different sorts of cheese," she remembered him saying.

Soon enough, Isobel was surrounded with no more than a handful of others. Arryn kept fidgeting with something in her robes, while Godfrey continued stroking her shoulder. Fergus stood not far off, his face stony-featured for many reasons besides Alistair's death. Eamon stood beside Teagan, who looked ill with grief. And Cailan stood in front of them all, his hand still curled around the golden gauntlet beneath his palm.

Wetting her lips, she took a tentative step forward, unsure if her knees would hold her weight. When they did, she continued, her sights set upon Cailan. Not until she stood directly in front of him did she see the dampness on his cheeks.

He looked up at her when he felt the weight of her hand atop his. His eyes were red and appeared to be made of glass; his jaw worked to keep from shedding another tear, ultimately failing the moment he saw her eyes fill again. "He wanted to do this," she whispered, though her voice shook so violently she was forced to repeat herself. "He did this for you."

"He didn't," Cailan said, tearing his eyes away from her face with a shake of his head. His hand slipped from beneath hers to remove the strand of blonde hair stuck between his lips. "He did it for you."

"For us, then."

"He didn't have a choice," he retorted as his brows knit together. Resting a hand onto the wide marble slab, he leaned towards her. "I took you with me. I forced him into it. I should have given him a choice." Cailan took a sharp breath, shaking his head again. "Maker's blood, I should have given him a choice."

Isobel's chin tilted downwards, her eyes settling upon Alistair's face. Anyone who hadn't known him would look into his face and see nothing, no expression whatsoever. But she could see the smallest of smiles in the corner of her mouth. "Your people need you, Cailan," she said, her voice soft. "You should speak to them, announce what you plan to do with Amaranthine. I will see that he is tended do."

She was right. Of course she was right. There were very few times in all of his months knowing of her when she hadn't been right.

Biting down on his bottom lip, Cailan nodded. He looked upon Alistair once more before sniffing back another onslaught of tears, turning away from them both, and beginning the long trek back to the palace. Some distance away, he glanced over his shoulder to see Isobel kneeling beside the stone slab, her hands cradling Alistair's gauntlet against her cheek.

He had been so oblivious. With Chella, with Isobel, with Alistair – there was so much that, given the choice, he would have done differently. As he watched Isobel stand again, replacing Alistair's hand onto the sword and met with Arryn and Godfrey, he felt the very distinct burning of disappointment in himself. He had not only stolen his half-brother's potential, but he'd stolen his opportunity to be loved, as well.

Just as he was about to turn away, he saw Arryn reach into her pocket and draw something out. She handed it to Isobel, so careful in her movements that it was obvious even from a distance. Only when Isobel lifted it to her eyes to examine it closer did he realize what it was. It was a rose.

Turning away, Cailan took a deep breath.

He loved Isobel. While it was true that he could not be with her in the way that he wished, with her at his side as his queen, it was still love, was it not? Circumstance often stood in the path of love in the tales. Or had he stolen the opportunity to be properly loved from her, as well?

No sooner had he posed the question to himself did he remember a conversation they'd had mere days prior, before the march, before the end of the Blight, while she was recovering and he was preparing.

Smoothing her hair away from her face, he'd pressed a kiss onto her forehead and called her his queen. She grasped onto his wrist and leaned back, looking into his eyes with a solemn expression. "Cailan," she said quietly, a hint of reproach in her words, "Don't call me that. You know it is not true."

"I believe it to be so."

The honesty in his voice made the line of her mouth curve into a slight smile. "I would make a terrible queen."

"You would be a wonderful queen. And a wonderful wife."

She could tell by his tone that he was saying this in some attempt to sate her. After meeting with Oswyn, the noble tortured in the bowels of Howe's dungeon, she'd been more introverted than she had been ever since Cailan arrived. Her fingers dug into his golden hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. "And funnily enough, while neither is possible, that doesn't discourage me."

He looked at her curiously then, a single brow arched in question. For most of his life, he'd been surrounded by women who would do anything to be a queen, to be his wife. "Why is that?"

"Because I already have everything I need," she murmured, her thumb roaming over his temple, "I have my hero."

Cailan curled his arms around her, lifting her off of the bed and pulling her close. He took a deep breath, savoring the scent of thyme in her hair, before pressing another kiss to her forehead. She rested her chin on his shoulder, her eyes falling shut as his fingers traced shapes onto her back. "And I have mine."

Pulling his shoulders back, he kept his eyes level in front of him despite the urge to glance back at her. He couldn't. Not right now. But later – later, he would find her and apologize and be that strength that she needed.

He had no reason to fear.

* * *

**A/N:** ... It's done! It's done! Ohmygod, it's _actually done_. I don't know whether to be excited or cry because I'm going to miss them so much. Argh, conflicted.

I'd like to send a very heartfelt thanks to anyone and everyone who has been reading. If you've been here from the beginning or picked it up much later into the story, it doesn't matter, your readership means the world to me. Thank you to every person who left a Story Alert, a Story Favorite, or a review. Thank you to those who messaged me, who supported me, and who kept up with me despite long periods of nada from my end. THANK YOU. SO MUCH!


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